Canada Warbler I see on a wooded path beside a harbor on the Connecticut shoreline is just stopping over on its long journey from South America. We have chopped down so many trees that this bird is lucky to have found the habitat it needs. And yet for this moment in time, maybe just this one day, this patch of woods is home, the place where you eat and rest and simply live. The bird is alive in this moment, thoroughly inhabiting the space, its own feathery body, and this moment. Imagine if every room you walked into could feel like home. If you could carry home with you, inside your skin. If every moment you were truly alive, not constructing elaborate plans in your mind about your next footstep, but knowing that instinct will lead you to where you need to go.
Pic: National Geographic, Vol. 31, 1917
Friday, May 21, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Spring brings on a kind of fever. People here in Connecticut are transformed. The many months of hunkering down and being solitary are a hazy dream. People have started saying hello in the street again. And smiling. Actually smiling. The nature reserve in my neighborhood is overflowing with baby squirrels. Squirrelets. Warblers are zigzagging out of the tops of the oak trees like so much popcorn. Baltimore Orioles are singing their bell-like song and appearing in the top branches like yellow-orange flames. Thrushes are creeping in the undergrowth. Catbirds are chortling and chattering and just plain showing off. They are such born performers. They don't flit away; if anything, it's almost as though they dance a little closer to soak up all the attention.