Pulling Through

The papery buzzing sound was distinct - and familiar. To the attentive ear, it sounded of fierce determination, yet desperation. I knew it would go on for some time, truly a matter or life and death.

Several years ago, in yet another attempt to keep birds from crashing headlong into our large living room window, we tried something different. We tightly stretched a large piece of plastic netting over the outside of the window frame. It’s the kind of netting normally draped over fruit trees to keep birds from eating the fruit. We grew accustomed to its strange look, sort of like a large mesh screen. It’s worked too - not one bird has smashed into the window since, although several a year have bounced off the mesh.

This time of the year, attracted by the wonderful reflections in the glass, huge, colorful dragonflies occasionally work their way between the netting and the window. They get in, but they never can figure out how to get back out. Frantically, they try again and again, gradually beating their cellophane -like wings to tatters and eventually dying of exhaustion. The sound I heard was one such trapped dragonfly.

Through trial and error, I have learned to assist them out. Holding the end of a broom handle up to the mesh by the insect’s legs, I urged it to grab hold. If I pulled too hard on the broom it would either let go and remain trapped or I would injure its wings as I pulled it against the net. With steady, solid support though, it was able to fold its wings back just enough to pull itself through. Later, I found it at the pond, basking in its reflection where dragonflies belong.

Finding ourselves in a tight situation, whether of our own doing or not, we too may need assistance. A strong push or pull is not necessarily helpful. Simply a shoulder to lean on can give us all the support we need to “pull ourselves through”. Isn’t this just what we all need sometimes?

I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From whence does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
Who made heaven and earth.
Psalms 121.1-2

All Photos courtesy PDPhoto.org

http://www.pdphoto.org/index.php

More Than One Way to Hold up a Stocking

Grade School Classmates with Teacher

I burst in the door and let fly: "This stupid thing broke, so I had to hold my sock up the rest of the day!" Mom's answer was equally quick, but less irritated: "You didn't need to do that. Look, you could have just wound the top of the sock up like this and tucked it inside - it would have stayed up." Of all the lessons on that first day of school, that was the one that stayed with me.

When I began first grade that fall in 1949, it was my very first experience with school. Kindergarten was not required back then; my mother believed it to be simply a place for playing and I could certainly do that at home - so I didn't need to go. During that era, little girls wore long cotton stockings held up with - of all things - a garter belt. White stockings were for dress-up, plain brown for every day. Being a complete and utter tomboy freshly restricted to the confines of a classroom after a summer spent roaming the neighborhood barefoot, in shorts and light tops, I'm sure being forced to wear a dress and brown cotton full-length stockings put me in a bit of a snit to begin with that day. Then, the dratted garter failure during a group game and I spent the rest of the school day hopping around holding one stocking up. I still remember how embarrassed I was, although probably no one else even noticed or cared. Thinking back to that day, I have to wonder why I didn't figure out another way to deal with that situation? Mom's simple explanation showed me that there is more than one way to hold up a stocking - and that's true for many things in life. It got me thinking...

McKinley Grade School Days

Except on the coldest winter days, I was expected to walk to school. Everyone did. Because we lived about 8 blocks from school, my mother was wise enough to make sure I had a "walking buddy" from the very beginning. The kids who lived closest to me, and with whom I most often played, all went to a catholic school, so that first week Mom walked me a couple of blocks to the home of Carol, a girl I didn't know. Carol and I then walked the rest of the way by ourselves, although probably someone made sure we knew the way. For all six years of grade school, I walked each day to Carol's house, and then we went on together, adding friends to our group as our age and experience increased. We walked home the same way, only taking a different route. I really had no choice in this routine - that was the way it was. I learned that it's better not to go it alone and your circle of friends can grow.

Walking Home

Carol and I did not have a lot in common and so, despite our many treks together, never did become close friends. During our Junior High School years, we met on a corner near my house before walking the shorter distance to school. By the time we started High School we had gone separate ways. Both our mothers had insisted we get along and so I don't remember that we ever fought or treated each other unkindly. THAT, perhaps, was the biggest lesson of all.

...for attaining wisdom and discipline,
      for understanding words of insight,
for acquiring a disciplined and prudent life,
      doing what is right and just and fair;
for giving prudence to the simple,
      knowledge and discretion to the young -
let the wise listen and add to their learning.
      and let the discerning get guidance -
for understanding proverbs and parables,
      the sayings and riddles of the wise.
Proverbs 1:2-7

Suquamish Woods

Crowds of Alder, firm and tall

Long limbs reaching high

Gently touch, sway in harmony

Spattered leaves against the sky

Cedar, forest elders, wrap around

Cloaks of muted green

Dry shelter beneath their feet

Scented core and roots unseen

Sunlight splashes through

Dances with the fern

Hidden deep, ripe berries plump

Salal, Huckleberry, wait their turn

Winding through the forest heart

Spirit world for some

Wind whispers, fish are running,

Follow me and come

(This particular location,

along with many Native Americans of the Suquamish Tribe,

 is found on the Kitsap Peninsula in Western Washington)

Late Summer Letter

Dear Father,

I received your most welcome gifts of long, sunny, days, fair temperatures, blooming flowers, and singing birds. Thank you so very much. I will try to care for the plants as best I can - they are such a joy to me. Thank you also for each creature - and person - who comes into my life each day. Each is so special that I find it hard to express what they mean to me. I trust that you know.

Time is flying by quickly here, and summer has been good. Each day brings many joys and surprises, but also some pain and suffering. About the usual, I would say. Life keeps me busy; often I forget to thank you for what you have sent - sorry I have not been better about keeping in touch.

Even at my age, I’m learning new things and meeting new challenges. I try to exercise, eat healthy, and take care of the body you have given me, although it does seem to be an uphill battle. My mind is not as quick as it used to be in some areas, but seems to compensate by being far wiser in others. I keep it busy and active. I ‘m trying to use my time, talents, and resources to serve others, but know I could do more. I only share when I want to and admit to being darned lazy at times!

I’m sorry to say that my mouth still gets me in trouble, for too often I react with my head rather than my heart. I’ve resolved a few conflicts and apologized to some people I have wronged, but must admit that I still hold a grudge or two. I’m embarrassed to realize just how arrogant and judgmental I can be and I certainly don't share as much as I could. I’m sure this will not surprise you, as you’ve known me my whole life and I’m probably not all that unusual of a human being. I do wonder why you gave us a will of our own, as we so often go astray...

In the quiet times this summer, I’ve had a chance to think deeply about many things and I have some serious questions I hope you will answer someday. Why do you allow us to go on hurting each other - insulting, bullying, abusing, maiming, and killing,? Will there ever be an end to war? Why do “good” people suffer so, while some “not-so-good” people don’t seem to? Where is the clear line between good and evil - and who gets to decide where it lies? How do we decide what is “right” and yet not be judgmental? Will we ever learn to take care of this spectacular planet you've given us and clean up the messes we've made here? Why haven’t you washed you hands of the lot of us?

I am still trying to grow and find my way, wanting so many answers. But above all, I know that you love me and will always be with me. When you seem far away, it is me who has wandered off - I seem to do it often. You know what I can and cannot handle, what I should and should not know, so I should not doubt you at all. Please help me with my unbelief - yet again.

And finally - thanks for just being there, for it is often Your presence that gets me through the day.

Your loving daughter,

Ladybug

“’If you can?’ said Jesus.

Everything is possible for him who believes.”

Immediately the boy’s father exclaimed,

“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

Mark 9:23-24

Porch Runner

©2006 Walter Siegmund

For years, we called it the “Porch Runner” because that’s exactly what it did - run across the porch, over the railings, underneath, out the other end and through the flower beds lickety-split. It rarely sat still, racing along the ground or flitting from bush to bush, often concealing itself within a dense thicket. We watched it snatch crumbs from the dog’s dish, pick small leftovers from the barbecue grill, hop through the grass flushing out bugs which it nipped in mid air, or gobble seeds from the feeder. Mostly, it scratched for a living. Using both of its large feet at once, it scratched down into moist humus, bare earth, and even snow, to uncover whatever seeds and tiny bugs it could. Often, we’d hear it rooting around before we saw it. With its dark, rusty color and streaked breast it easily blended into its surroundings.

Red-breasted Nuthatch

 We’ve grown accustomed to having these plain, nondescript little birds around. One spring day I took the time to trace the source of a brilliant musical song and was truly surprised to find it came from one of these dark little birds. Finally, I took the time to study it carefully and identified it - Song Sparrow. A sly little bird it is, too. Chickadees and Nuthatches pick through seeds in a small feeder at our kitchen window, dropping their rejects to the ground below. Song Sparrows nest under the porch, where it is only a couple of feet to reach this scattering of seeds. Since I keep this flower bed well weeded, it’s easy scratching here.

Violet-green Swallows

With small, weak feet, Swallows can barely walk on the ground, let alone catch their dinners. Each summer, we wait for their return and are elated when we finally see them swooping overhead or perching (with those tiny feet) on the power line that runs right below “their” birdhouse. My husband has built and hung many birdhouses in our yard, but each year the Violet-green Swallows claim the same one. This year, some Chickadees nested there first, causing quite a commotion when the Swallows arrived. Whether the Chickadees got their young raised or were run off we don’t know, but the Swallows ultimately reclaimed the house. Their metallic chirps echoed through the yard as they fed and reassured their young. Swallows catch their food on the wing, climbing thousands of feet up or skimming just above the surface of ponds and lakes, their short, wide mouths snapping up flying insects.

American Goldfinches

It is the season of plenty - whole families of Juncos, Goldfinches, House Finches, Downy, Hairy, and Pileated Woodpeckers, Flickers, Black-headed and Evening Grosbeaks, Ravens, and Crows share our space. I shed my shoes and walk across a carpet of green. Ancient cedars frame a sky of startling blue. The sun warms my back as I kneel down among color, fragrance, and buzzing bees. Nearby, an insistent noise distracts me. A young one follows behind, wings a-twitter, as the Porch Runner noisily scratches out its dance of life.

Pileated Woodpecker

 Even the sparrow has found a home,

and the swallow a nest for herself,

where she may have her young -

a place near your altar,

O Lord Almighty, my King and my God.

Blessed are those who dwell in your house;

they are ever praising you.

Psalm 84:3-4

Song Sparrow picture file from Wikimedia Commons

Driving Storm

Sky, stuffed with clouds
All shades of grey
Bleeding into one another.
Along the horizon
A small fringe of white puffiness
Holds out against encroaching darkness.

We see it first.
Distant smudges blurring
The difference between land and sky.
Drive into it -
Or it into us -
Large, loud splats against the windshield.

Rain so hard
Wipers can barely clear it off
Fast enough to see.
Moments before, dry gray highway
Now covered with sheets of water.
Inside, we shout to be heard.

In the distance a sudden, blinding flash
From earth to sky and back again,
Although I cannot see this order.
Following quickly behind,
A deep, disturbing rumble
We feel in bellies and on the floor.

A reflection -
Our own traveling through this -
In the images passing by.
Other cars on narrow, now-blackened strip,
Race through and part the flow,
Spraying water as if they were hydroplanes.

It does not last long.
Flash and rumble
Fade away into the distance.
We pass from the storm -
Or it from us -
See dark, smothering clouds recede to the rear.

Drive on through dappled, rain-fresh hills,
All colors deeper now, and more pronounced.
Sweet smell of wet grass and dust
Lingers.

Willows of the Brook

At first it was a whisper, barely there, something sensed more than heard. Then the syncopated rhythm, drumming softly on skylights and roof. Gentle rain with a hint of breeze stirred the surrounding woods and began the day.

Summers, we enjoy morning coffee and the paper outdoors. My husband prefers the picnic table on the porch where he can spread the news out before him. I usually soak in the sun near the carport, close to the bird feeders where the action is. But this day, even with predicted high temperatures, arrived with clouds and light fog misting in from the canal. On the porch, curled up in my favorite chair, I gazed out to a sea of green - the tall, swaying type.

Beyond the old cedar and the wild cherry, the land slopes down into bog filled with Alders, Douglas Firs, a few Elderberries and Mountain Ash. Near the road, a small drainage stream winds its way through the thicket. There among the blackberries, a number of willows grow. We hardly notice, as they are mostly out of view and that area is far too boggy and choked with brush to walk through.

But we did notice the sudden clearing left after a winter wind storm several years ago. One large old willow had been snapped and was bent over into the bog. Aside from being unattractive, it wasn’t hurting anything and was nearly impossible to reach, so we decided to just let it be. We figured it’d rot out in a year or two and gradually disappear completely. We figured wrong.

That spring, we agreed to have a few of the large Alders closest to the house removed. Wind-damaged, with large splits in their trunks, they could hit the house if they came down on their own. My husband mentioned the downed willow to the tree man. He told us it probably wouldn’t rot; the fallen part would put out new roots, the branches facing up would continue to grow, and a whole new clump of smaller trees would form. By the end of that summer his prediction had come true and then some.

I should have known. We have several curly willows and a couple others we grow for the large pussy willow catkins they produce each spring. All have been grown from branches simply stuck in damp soil and left to root. Willows beyond our fence in the neighbor’s woods continue to multiply, slowly moving our way until we whack them back again - and yet again.

Willows sprout readily, grow in all soils, and on all continents except Australia. For thousands of years they have been used for food, housing materials, firewood, basketry, and pain-relief, containing a chemical similar to aspirin.

Their sticky-sweet scent wafts me back to childhood, when on summer trips we’d stop beside a cool stream for a rest or lunch. If there was water, there were always willows - how we welcomed their shade!

And you shall take on the first day

the fruit of goodly trees,

branches of palm trees, and boughs of leafy trees,

and willows of the brook;

and you shall rejoice before the Lord seven days.

Leviticus 23:40