Field Notes: Spring 2021

A change within

The woods are showering me with gifts.

Beech and oak flowers on the trail when I was wishing for a way to get up into the tree canopy to see them. An abundance of flowers dangling on Striped Maples at eye level, making me wonder how I’ve never noticed them before. The tuliplike buds of Shagbark Hickory my friend Sarah told me about and then seeing them a few days later.

The woods are always full of gifts, offering them generously. But today is different somehow.

The change is within me, not the woods.

I’m moving beyond learning the names of my woodland neighbors (although I will always continue to learn names) and adding a layer of knowledge that comes with time and attention to details.

It’s like recognizing a friend’s voice before they come into view. Like knowing whether your beloved prefers tea or coffee in the morning, with or without milk, and how much sugar.

It’s like falling in love.

How I spent the morning

I have spent the morning with Cora
throwing acorns into the stream,
seeing which float and which sink,
squealing about the pings and plunks as they hit the water,
standing in the stream in my colorful boots, and
retrieving the acorns from the cold water with our hands and a net,
feeling the net grow heavier
and heavier.
And throwing them all back in again.

I have spent the morning
squatting at the edge of the water
scooping up wet leaves with the net,
getting stuck in the squelching mud,
almost falling,
almost always laughing.

I have spent the morning
picking up rocks in the streambed,
turning them over
and over
finding caddisfly larvae
and exclaiming over their intricate cocoons.

I have spent the morning
noticing dimples and ripples in the water,
wanting to catch the water striders
but watching as they silently circled away.

I have spent the morning being.

A glimpse

On our walk this morning, I caught a glimpse of something.

A connection. An understanding.

A little glimpse and it was gone. Like when I see a bird and then by the time I raise my binoculars, the bird has flown away.

So I can’t tell you any details about what I saw, but experiencing this glimpse was enough.

Now I know that whatever it was, whatever I glimpsed, it exists. Even if I can’t see it clearly.

The time it takes

It takes time to peer into the water and notice what turn out to be Northern Casemaker Caddisfly larvae.

Time to distinguish the dark purple stems of Early Blue Cohosh from the backdrop of fallen leaves.

Time to wait for Palm Warblers to grow accustomed to my presence and start singing again.

Time for the seasons to turn before I observe answers to my questions.

It takes time to know a place.

Glide

It’s a gorgeous, gorgeous late spring day here.

Clear blue sky. Light breeze. Just right temperature.

At the end of our walk I watch a hawk gliding on the thermals.

The gracefulness. The apparent ease. The effortlessness.

As I envy the hawk, I wonder, When in my everyday do I, too, glide?