Mr. Wilson's Arboretum

January 3, 2002

The Eighth Day of Christmas

Is also New Year’s Day.

December 31, 2001

Solstice

Weird warm weather, and reverberations of war, have made the Holidays hard to focus on this year. But then, it’s always that way; always some distraction; something that seems important, taking precedence. That’s why the Holidays are enshrined in a specific time, even as they allude to something timeless. The calendar brings them to the fore, and, ready or not, we must celebrate, or else suffer alienation.

So here we are, in the very trough of the Year, yet turning towards the Sun once more. A little piece of Sun got caught in a cloud, like a fragment of rainbow; what my Dad used to call a sun dog. I put it up on the page as a sign for the Holidays; promising a Summer’s worth of Sun, even as Winter begins.

But first: the Time we’ve been prescribed. We’ll do the best we can with it, and hope today’s hearts can still conform to the Traditional message of hope and rebirth.

Step number one: send a Christmas card.

November 22, 2001

Giving and Getting Thanks

Troubled times, but there is still much to be thankful for. With all the horror close at hand, I've barely been scathed. Life is still a gift, and the first thing for which we give thanks. That we in America live so much better than most of the world is perhaps a great accomplishment, but it's not our god-given right. We should be thankful for our good fortune, and willing to look objectively at the reasons behind it.

A nation is an abstraction, of people, land, and laws. On Thanksgiving Day we habitually turn to things that are more palpable to us: the friends and family we love, even the food we eat. If Thanksgiving represents Tradition, then it is our harvest holiday, Pilgrim mythology notwithstanding.

Harvests are of many sorts, but here we mark the fruition of routine. The toilsome tending of the crops; the daily interactions with the people closest to us; the reliable turning of the seasons: these are the patterns that breed Love and Life.

My routine in the Park has gone on.
Outside circumstances have polluted my concentration at times, but the seasons pass unperturbed. This page has wandered a bit from its usual subject matter, but I don't enforce borders here, and whatever works its way into my life is apt to leave a spoor within the Arboretum. Still, I do want to get back to such important matters as may be buried in the fallen leaves, glimpsed in the first light of dawn, or argued in the variant plumages of south-bound birds.
To that end, I will tell a little of the doings of the Fall, and, perhaps, illumine something of how thanks may be given.

The Fall migration of birds is winding down, and I have to say I've done pretty well with it. I've seen seven new birds, including some that are not easy to see. Most notable of these is the Connecticut Warbler. I found it on a chill and windy afternoon in early October, after a cold front moved through, which is often the occasion for a wave of migrants.

Some birds are rare, and some, though common, are hard to get a look at. The marsh-dwelling Sora Rail, another new sighting, falls into the latter category. The Connecticut Warbler on the other hand, is both rare and difficult to see. It skulks in the underbrush, walking more than it flies. In Spring it migrates west of the Appalachians, so it only appears in the Park during the Fall, when it takes the Atlantic route. Wood Warblers are the crown jewels of birding in eastern North America, and among them the Connecticut is one of the most sought-after, and one of the most elusive.

But there it was, walking through the Wildflower Meadow. With its dusky brown hood, it was a female, or else a first fall bird, born this year. The adult male is brighter, but I'm not complaining; any sighting of this bird is special. It's a cousin of the Mourning Warbler, and young birds pose some possible confusion between the species, but I knew the proper field marks. The strong eye-ring, the long undertail coverts, and most decisively the walking, rather than hopping, gait, were unmistakable signals of identity. Still, I was glad to have the sighting verified by another lucky birder who happened by.

It's good for one's reputation to have an unusual sighting backed up. But more than that, I've had some good birds pointed out to me by other observers, and one wants to be able to return the favor. This is done as a matter of principle, not tit for tat (or tit for chat), so “thanks” is institutionalized as a system of nonspecific reciprocity, spreading the good stuff around. Which is great, but I prefer to bird alone, as a form of meditation, so I don't always get the chance to share. On this occasion it was almost preternatural the way Nick Wagerik (an insect enthusiast, but also a birder, fully appreciative of the warbler’s import) appeared at just the right moment. He thanked me for showing him the rarity.
But who do I thank?

I knew the Connecticut was a good bird to get, but I didn’t know quite how good. People actually congratulate you for having seen it. There are birders far more skillful than I, with years of experience, who have never seen one.
So why me?

It must be said that luck is no small part of birding, and my luck is leveraged, if not by skill, then by persistence. Not to mention an appetite for spending inordinate amounts of time staring into dense tangles of vegetation. It’s part of my routine. These factors alone are enough to explain why I might see good birds, but I like to think that it’s more than that. Yes, I’m thankful, but sometimes I actually think that the Park is thanking me. Because I appreciate it; because I use it in an appropriate manner; because I love it, its treasures are endlessly unfolded before my eyes.

I don’t want to see a rare bird; I just want to see what’s there. And there’s always something worth seeing. The more I see, the more enchanted I am; the more inspired to look further. The more I look, the more I see; the more I see, the more I look, and so on, in a reciprocity of fulfillment beyond expectation. At some point, I find myself looking right through the Park, and onto the very visage of the Goddess, and surely it’s Her that I must thank. Yet She sheds my thanks like water off a duck's back, and everything returns to me.

When Love has leveled the divide between the Lover and the Beloved,
what we do for ourselves will be done for the Other,
and a “Thank You” earns more than it owes.

older posts...

The Tenth Day of Christmas

The Ninth Day of Christmas

The Eighth Day of Christmas

The Seventh Day of Christmas

The Sixth Day of Christmas

The Fifth Day of Christmas

The Fourth Day of Christmas

The Third Day of Christmas

The Second Day of Christmas

Merry Christmas

Solstice

Giving and Getting Thanks