Yesterday out in the yard, in a calm, quiet moment, I heard the wind moving overhead. Or rather, it was being pushed, sounding like a helicopter propeller on mute.
As it grew louder and I looked up, I realized it was a raptor, one of the large birds of prey, just behind me and now overhead. Its powerful flapping wings delivered that unmistakable sound. It was an eagle or a hawk, cutting through the sky. Owning it. I watched it move on into the trees and the rotorlike sound faded.
During this slow time of year, a single incident in nature can have so much impact. The act of observing and the time to contemplate combine to add significance. Such an experience, even just lasting a minute or two, can infuse meaning into my day.
In this case, the bird sighting coaxed me into the forest, and as I searched the treetops for a sign of her, I noticed how far I could see through the deciduous woods. A momentary ray of sunlight cascaded through and lit up the path, rare for the gray day and for how far it reached into the understory.
Perhaps, when the weather cooperates, this is the best time of year to be out in the landscape, as nature is also marking change, through short days and long nights, at a modest pace.
Once that stand of maples has dropped its leaves, we might not give it another glance until the buds break in spring. But wait. The moss has crept further up the northern side of the mottled white trunks. At its base, the bed of leaves fades from gold to brown to mulch. Snow lights up the stand, settling on its branches and drifting over the decaying leaves. Wind makes its limbs dance, toss off the snow and shed weaker branches with a sharp crack.
Recently I was walking amongst other tall structures, the high-rise office buildings of downtown Seattle. My old office building sits across from the incredible Central branch of the Seattle Public Library and a few blocks downhill from the lecture and event venue Town Hall, so it’s still a neighborhood I visit. A thought passed, in a sour moment of considering life’s priorities: I wasted my 40s sitting in that building.
Yes, okay. But in many senses, that was not true. I made a living, I learned, I worked with talented people, some who are still close friends. I did some good writing and editing and helped grow a small publishing business into an enterprise valuable enough to be snapped up in a merger. That caused me to box up my reporter’s notebooks and what-nots and haul them out on one last elevator ride. Come to think of it, I never after took an elevator to get to work.
If I was still in my 40s (or if I was not a gardener), I likely wouldn’t think that the young start to a new year is “the slow time.” I probably wouldn’t be reading books at such a fast pace—three novels, two nonfiction just since the ball dropped. And I might not be meandering out into the forest in search of a nearly silent bird or other symbols of life in the denuded trees.
This morning I stepped out onto the porch with my coffee and a rising staccato cackling pierced the silence. Taking a few steps forward, I fired up Merlin and waited for it to repeat. When it did, echoing through the denuded trees, the app identified it as the call of the pileated woodpecker. I searched the bare trunks for the large bird with its peaked red crown and watched for the quick, repetitive movements of it hammering its beak into the wood. Alas, no flash of red, no drilling strikes.
But the birds remind me to stop for the sounds as well as the sightings. Pay attention, which was a good photographer friend’s prime directive. Acclimate to the slower time, knowing the moments soon enough will come to quicken the pace.
Have another minute for a great song? Lyle rides a horse!
Hi, Bill -- enjoyed this immensely!...and it made me think that you would enjoy my daughter's blog, at: https://www.carfreerambles.org/. ("Rails to Trails" will especially link the 2 of you.) Or mine, here on Substack (dierdre.substack.com). Looking forward to reading the rest.