The Generosity of Geese

One evening in early August I was strolling in Stewart Park, at the southern tip of Cayuga Lake, when I spotted a couple carrying a large animal crate toward the lake shore. Intrigued, and anticipating a release of some kind, I followed and watched the following scene unfold…

The door of the crate was opened, and the couple stepped aside as they waited for whatever was within to emerge. Nothing happened. The crate was then up-ended, and out slid two young geese. (I later learned they were the outcome of a school project involving eggs). Our lake is a big lake and the geese stood as though stunned for a few minutes as they gaped at the expanse of water. Uncertain what to do or what was expected of them, they shifted from one foot to the other, and paced nervously along the shoreline. The couple settled on a log to wait for the moment that the geese would take their first step to freedom.

 In the meantime, the new arrivals had been spotted by some of our local geese gathered on the lake. A pair, apparently a mother and adolescent, separated from the rest and started to float a bit closer. Lingering about 50 feet from shore they expressed obvious interest and curiosity by establishing eye contact with the new arrivals and maintaining an open stance as they ever so slowly drifted forward. There were quiet calls. The orphans watched them for a few moments. 

Then, suddenly, the two geese on shore lifted off as one and flew low over the surface of the water to a point just beyond the welcoming pair. Upon landing they turned and swam – quickly – over to the mother and child, taking positions on either side of the smaller goose.  The youngsters appeared to be the same size and age. They looked like they belonged together. The new family turned, and quietly paddled off into the fading light.

I have sat for some time with my memories of that night, from the initial uncertainty and not knowing to the creation of a new family. As an introvert, I appreciate being approached with gentle curiosity and interest. Seeing this play out with the geese was stunning. I was especially struck by the sense of welcoming and of being welcomed. Recalling times when I have felt welcomed with a warm embrace, I have also wondered how often I am truly welcoming. There are so many examples in the world today of “us” vs “them”, of building fences, turning back and pushing away. Where do any of us truly belong? Even as a small child I remember feeling like an alien, looking around and thinking “this is not the way it is supposed to be”.

What does it say about humans that I find the highest ideals I aspire to being played out by geese on the lake shore? I'm afraid they are better at this than I am.

Their generosity of spirit continues to reach deep into my being and fill my heart with amazement and something akin to joy. Watching our native geese so simply and graciously gather in the outsiders reminded me… this is the way it is supposed to be.

Longing for Home

When I was eight years old I spent four weeks at a summer camp for girls in West Virginia. My mother grew up in this camp, and I imagine she hoped I would grow to love it as she did. Nestled in a corner of the Shenandoah valley, surrounded by mountains, the camp provided wide-ranging activities. Best of all, it had horses, and we rode several times a week. Four weeks, however, was a very long time for a little girl's first adventure away from home. Every day I received a warm, newsy letter from mom or dad, and every day I wrote the same thing... "I miss you. I am homesick. I want to come home." This was followed by a list of all of the activities and adventures that had taken place in the last day or two. Looking back on this time it is clear that I was generally recognized by camp staff as the most homesick camper that season. Special attention was given to me in many ways, such as being chosen to be the Indian princess for one of the camp tribes.

When the last day of camp and my parents arrived, I ran and threw myself at my mother in relief. There were a number of Parent's Day activities to be endured. After a humiliating showing in the horse show (I was given Haymaker, and he made some hay) I insisted that we leave right now. And we did. I still remember sitting in the back seat of the car wheeling out of the camp. On some level that experience had been a trial and a burden to me and I was relieved to be headed for home and safety.

That said, it may be a surprise to learn that I spent the next twenty summers at camp. Closer to home initially, for shorter periods of time. As I got older I was a counselor-in-training, then a counselor, then a camp director. And as I got older I longed for camp as I had once longed for home. Longed for the outdoor living, the meaningful relationships, and the freedom to be a different "me" at camp. It has been many years now since I have been at camp, but every spring I start thinking about heading off on another adventure, and camp songs haunt me throughout the summer.

Today, at 62, I again hear myself repeating the same refrain: "I want to go home. I want to go home." In this voice I recognize the longing for relief, comfort and safety. A longing for something beyond my daily life. A spiritual yearning for those still and exultant magical moments that I most often experience in the out-of-doors. This longing often takes me out of the present moment. I don't want to be here, I want to be there. And yet, as I finally came to recognize camp as home, it seems as if the little girl longing for home might have been at home all along. Perhaps our fears and insecurities, our uncertainties and worries, drop a veil in front of our eyes and keep us from seeing that we are always home, always held in a loving heart.

Leaving camp early that day more than fifty years ago meant that I missed the final council fire. Seasoned campers cherish the memories of the ceremony that brings closure to the camp experience. It is one of the few places where the ritual of saying goodbye, of remembering and honoring our time together, is enacted. Next year I will be returning to my mother's and my camp to attend the closing council fire and finally complete the summer of my eighth year. I am going home.

This blog post was picked up by the American Camp Association for their "Parent's Place" blog dated November 18, 2013.  

A Rain of Leaves

The falling leaves of autumn teach me about letting go and passing away. I like to stand in the deep woods and watch the leaves rain down. Some seem to fall gladly and willingly, while others need to be shaken free by the wind. What I especially notice as I watch the leaves is just how easy it seems. One second the leaf is attached to the branch… the next second it is falling. The letting go seems effortless, and the descent is often slow and gentle. Watching this fills me with a sense of peace. I am quite sure that this is how I want to die. So I watch, and pay attention, every year. Trying to absorb the ease with which this happens and trying to take in just how easy letting go can be.

A friend recently asked “what do you do when things are hopeless?” (As a life coach people imagine I have the answer to questions like this). After some hemming and hawing I asked “what advice does your higher self have?” The response: Let go. Immediately followed by the question… but how do I do that? This is why I watch the rain of leaves every year.

While people typically connect the return of the light to the winter solstice, for me the light returns when the leaves fall. Living surrounded by woods, I see the light streaming through the branches as the canopy empties. The sun, sky, clouds and stars become visible in places they were hidden all summer. If you are contemplating letting go, look around to see where the light is streaming in. What is being illuminated? What is revealed that was once hidden?

My feet are crunching the leaves now when I walk through the woods. A thick layer of leaves is being laid down, providing a blanket of protection against the cold of winter and nourishment for next spring’s growth. This is the cycle of living and of dying. I imagine the leaves falling with a sense of relief and excitement… relieved that this part of their journey has come to an end and now they can rest. Excited about the transformation that will allow them to support the growth of the forest in a new and different way. In what ways do your experiences fertilize the ground for your next project or job, or just for tomorrow?

This I Believe

The world would be a better place if people knew where the creatures around their home lived. This spring a pair of mallards has been paddling in the ditch by my country road. Why they would choose the ditch over the nearby lake or pond is somewhat of a puzzle to me. Are they eccentric vagabonds? Are they introverts, seeking an escape from the hustle and bustle of their comrades? Perhaps the ditch simply provides the shortest and most direct route to my neighbor’s house, where there is a daily buffet of corn and birdseed. Noticing the homes and habits of birds and animals has always given me a special delight.

A few years ago I purchased a pair of binoculars after taking the Spring Field Ornithology program at Cornell’s Lab of Ornithology. When I got home I took a walk in my woods in the late afternoon and, spotting a woodpecker hole high up in a tree, I trained my binoculars on it. To my surprise there was a squirrel curled up in the hole, gazing quietly out into the dusk. I still recall the wonder of that picture – it was a moment of absolute contentment… for both of us. I tiptoed away.

Just the other day I saw a red squirrel dart into the narrow hollow of a tree. Looking carefully it was hard for me to believe that it fit through that small gap, but I could see it in there. How many times have I walked past that tree without imagining the shelter it provided to little animals? It gives me a warm feeling to know that there are safe and dry places for these small creatures… even when the winter scuffling in the wall of my bedroom leads me to believe they are making a home in my home. (We don’t need to talk about how I spent Christmas day this year trapping and carrying half a dozen mice out of my kitchen.)

Walking in the park I spotted a large pile of sawdust next to a rotting tree. The ants were carving a home in the trunk, and an ant (or two or three, all ants look alike to me) was making a continuous round. It would disappear into the trunk and pick up a piece of sawdust in its jaws. Then it appeared in the opening, balanced at the edge and dropped the tiny grain of wood over the side. Back it went to get another grain which it carried to the lip of the opening and dropped onto the pile below. By the time I noticed this activity the pile of sawdust on the ground was about six inches high. Clearly the ants had been doing this a long time. Do you think they were complaining? “Boy, I’ve about had it with this. I am bored to death. Let’s go out for a smoke.” Or can you imagine they were doing this job with pride and dignity, or perhaps something like joy?

Noticing that animals have homes is tremendously reassuring to me. The instinct to nest, and to find shelter, to settle in for a good night’s sleep and to contemplate the events of the day is not limited to humans. We are a part of a larger community, all going about their daily work and returning home at the end of the day. When I have the privilege of looking in the windows of some of these homes I am filled with a quiet satisfaction and contentment. I can’t help but believe that if more people paid attention to this, they too might experience the stillness of knowing that, for the moment, all is right with the world.

A duplex beaver lodge

Lighting the Way

This is the season when adults who attended summer camp long ago begin to hum silly and soulful songs, reach out to old camp friends, and imagine packing our bags to head out for just one more summer lived out-of-doors. The foundation that camp provided still sustains me, forty years later. It gave me an understanding of the cycle of learning and forged my deeply rooted connection to the earth.

Those of us who grew up in the Camp Fire Girl tradition progressed through three ranks: Wood Gatherer, Fire Maker, and Torch Bearer. As Wood Gatherers we acquired basic skills and information, and established a context for our future endeavors. For instance, we learned how to be safe around fire, what types of fuel a fire needed, and how to organize the woodpile so that it would be easy to grab wood of the appropriate size when building and feeding the fire. The art of fire-building was practiced by the Fire Makers. We refined our skill at camp craft cookery, perfecting our one-pot meals and baking cobblers in reflector ovens. At night we warmed ourselves body and soul as we sang around our evening campfires, told stories, and listened to the trees whisper in the wind.

Torch Bearers played an important role in the ceremonial and spiritual aspects of camp. Having gained the mastery of fire, we planned and prepared the council fire at the end of each camp session. Paper sacks were stuffed with sand and candles, and then set to line the procession route. Torches were created by winding mouse mattresses (shhh! sanitary napkins) around poles and dipping them in paraffin. Oh, how we used to chuckle at this! On some level we delighted in the idea of our feminine products being used for such a sacred purpose... and we clearly took joy in the burning of these contrivances that were the source of so much discomfort and dismay.

As night descended, we lit our torches and led the campers to the sacred ground of the council fire ring. We come, we come to our council fire, with measured tread and slow, to light the fire of our desire…We stood at the four sides of our log cabin fire, invoked the four directions, and set the torches to the tinder. We reflected on our experiences and accomplishments, we expressed our gratitude, we laughed and we cried as our personal cycle of adventure, fun and learning for the camp season came to an end.

 

What is the tie that binds us together, friends of the long trail? Just this – we have shared the weather, we have slumbered side by side, and friends who have camped together shall never again divide.

How strong is your foundation?
What sustains you?
How do you honor the sacred?

How can you take your light out into the world and share it with others?

As a life coach in Ithaca, I provide a safe place for people to explore their deeper self and experiment with new ways of being in the world. If you want to feel more positive about what you are doing, and move forward with greater confidence, contact me. I offer visualization techniques and creativity tools to help you tap into your intuition and inner knowing so you can see the way more clearly.

Photo courtesy of Susan Neal. Check out her video/article on campfire cooking
This will have folks scurrying for onions, oranges, eggs, and gingerbread mix!