A LONGING TO DRIFT

I had been awake about ten minutes this morning, still laying quietly and appreciating the blue sky view and sunshine streaming in our bedroom window when Hub rolled over, sleepy-eyed, and asked what my plans were for the day....

Plans?  At that moment, still in a dawn daze, it was as if he was speaking a language I didn't understand, but of course I knew immediately what he wanted to know.  What will our day look like, together or apart?  Busy or lazy?  Productive or sort of wasted?  He is a championship planner and after nearly 43 years of marriage, so am I.

But my preferred mode of transport through the day is a slow meander -- I call it drifting.  Unless I have something scheduled (which is a lot of the time, to my dismay, but much less frequently that I used to) I love just seeing what my mind and spirit have in store for me as long hours of a new day stretch before me.  There is a lot of this when Hub is away, but when he's home I feel some obligation to be more intentional with my time.  And as in any relationship there is the dance of negotiation and accommodation to another's rhythms.

As usual, I got up, dressed, headed downstairs for my first cup of coffee and a peek at email, online news, and Facebook.  It's my morning routine for waking up to the world.  Then I puttered 'round the kitchen, found an article I wanted from an old newspaper, did a few dishes.  I went to the laundry room and sorted clothes, threw a load in the washer.  Back in the kitchen I wondered what I might make for Family Dinner this week and put that thought on hold since I hate meal planning and cooking....."Later..."

My eyes fell on a new book of poetry by Billy Collins and I grabbed it off the desk and walked to the living room.  Looking out our big window I stood for several long minutes just taking in the view -- fog settled lazily over the river valley, mountains to the east and north peeking up through the mist, sun shining on the bay, a new ship in port stacked high with bright orange containers ready to offload onto rail cars.

My gaze drifting to the birds at my front yard feeders made me smile with the recollection of yesterday morning when Angel and I sat for at least 30 minutes in front of the window, Birds of the Northwest book in front of us (she calls it the Hummingbird Book), identifying as many feeder birds as we could.  She was so excited to find a bird in the book that matched one at the feeder -- Pine Siskens, House Wrens, Junco's, Spotted Towhees and, yes, Hummingbirds.   It was a moment in time that I will always treasure -- spontaneous and timeless.

Finally I opened Collins and settled in on the sofa, randomly flipping through the book to  delight in poem after poem, marveling at his skill with language and imagery.   I scolded myself for spending so much time on tasks and responsibilities and commitments and so relatively little on pursuing and honing creative pursuits.

But the attic needs to be cleaned and organized so I can finally put away the bins of Christmas decorations.  And the yard is a mess of twigs, dead leaves, and growing weeds as it comes awake after winter's wet gloom.  The floors need vacuuming, the toilets need scrubbing, and the ongoing tasks of the church Stewardship Steering Committee need to be prioritized every day for the next month or so.

With these thoughts pushing to the 'fore I got up, closed the poetry book and came to my office to write this post as a transition from my morning drift to the day's steady tick-tick-ticking away of minutes and hours spent in productive activity.  Tonight I'll look back at my to-do list with items crossed off and feel a sense of accomplishment.  But I'll also lament that my "drifting" time seems so short and, consequently, so precious.

At least, that's the view from here....

HAPPY HUMMING

I'm feeling antsy.  It's a spring fever thing even though our wet, gray, windy "spring" is not very conducive to outdoor frolicking.  I drive by my blooming daffodils and hyacinths along the driveway and note the azalea buds growing more plump each day, but I'm not out there tending them, or anything else.  It has been established that I am a totally fair weather gardener.

So, anyway, I am antsy for something to tend.  Our sweet Toby-dog died a year ago February and my Cooper-cat followed month later.  I miss those members of the family, of course, but not their respective species' sharing space with me.  No dog "doo" in the yard or mounds of shedded retriever hair on the carpet; no litter pans to clean or embedded cat fur on all the furniture.  No pet food to buy and/or make (we cooked for allergy-prone Toby for years), no vet bills, no worrying about getting home to walk or feed, no sitters or boarding fees while we are away for vacation.  It's been freeing, for the first time in over 35 years, to not have an animal companion in our home.

Hub reminded me of all of this the other day when I mused that I was sort of thinking of getting a dog or a cat again.  He turned a bit pale and spoke to me very slowly, trying to gently recall my addled brain back to some contact with reality with the reminder of all the ways in which we have had a worry-free existence in the past year.  It didn't take me long to agree with him…but still….

I tried a bird feeder on the front porch late last summer, and enjoyed all the sweet little birdies, but boy, it was a mess.  Seed hulls everywhere and more wildlife than I knew we had started to hang out right outside the door -- squirrels, chipmunks, mice -- too many rodents for my taste.  Also the neighbor's cats seemed happy that I'd baited the birds for them.  So down came the feeder.

In the frigid days of this past winter I noticed a hummingbird under the neighbor's eaves.  I love hummingbirds, but have not been too successful at attracting them.  I figured this one was desperate enough, so I hung a feeder on that front porch hook and sure enough, the little guy found his way to my house and brought some friends.  I've been keeping them well stocked with nectar ever since.  But I can't really see them from inside the house, so it's not a very satisfying relationship.  Feeder full, feeder empty.  I feel mostly like a waitress.

So today, I made a trip to Wild Birds Unlimited to see if I could find a hummer-feeder that would attach to my deck rail off the kitchen sitting area, where we spend most of our time.  A bank of windows there looks out on a green ravine behind our house -- bird heaven!  Wild Birds Unlimited is like a toy store for bird and nature lovers.  I just like going in there -- dozens of bird and squirrel feeders of all types,  huge bags of specialty seeds, suets, wind chimes, door decals, gardener's hats and gloves and clothing, books, books, books!  Kids toys and games.  Photos and wind socks and the big 'old mellow store cat who lives to be petted.  Love it!  The big drawback is the price.  But I guess you pay for the ambiance?

I looked everything over, priced the various items I thought would work for my deck, and ended up going the simple economy route:  A suction-cupped window feeder with four feeding "stations" and a raised mount.  Very sweet.  I came home and assembled it, cooked up a batch of nectar, and mounted the feeder on my back window.  I assume it will take awhile for the hummers to find their new food source, so I am being patient, but hopeful.  (I was assured they won't smack themselves against our window to get to it.)

I realize hummers are a pretty low level "pet" to have, but it seems to be satisfying my desire to attract and care for a living being without too much fuss and muss.  Plus, I estimate the feeder was made with about 50-cents worth of plastic and only cost me $24.99!  Cheaper than a lifetime of vet bills and Purina Pet Chow!  Win-Win!

At least, that's the view from here… ©

HIKING...FOR THE BIRDS

Let's review.  I said a couple of days ago that I "enjoy a shorter, less strenuous hike" with my adventuring husband.  I guess he thought "moderately strenuous" was the very definition of "shorter, less strenuous" when he ran across the Canyon Trail hike description in the Kaua'i Guidebook.

So yesterday we drove to Waimea Canyon to hit the trailhead (also in search of the drier, sunnier side of the island since the rain and clouds where we are staying have been a bit persistent of late).

I knew I was in trouble right away.  I am leery of trails that start out going downhill.  Common sense, and previous excruciating experience, has taught me that what goes down, must come up.  And down we went..down...down...down.  I was already dreading climbing my butt back out of that canyon.  Regardless of the promised twin waterfalls, our destination, I was already certain they would not be worth the trek up, up, up at the tailend of our day.

Plus going down also means staring vigilantly at my feet, to avoid tangles of roots reaching for the tips of my toes, rocks and boulders to navigate, and slippery loose gravel underfoot -- all leading to the dreaded butt-whack onto surprisingly hard Kaua'i red dirt jarring my tailbone, back, and neck into spasm -- often with legs and arms akimbo and stretched unnaturally in their opposite and incorrect position.  Again, experience is the teacher here.

But with Hub's urging, optimistic encouragement, a nice walking stick, and his arm to hold onto, I kept on, only completely balking at yet another steep decline on that damnable gravel slipway and announcing, "That's it!  I'm waiting here!"  He assured me we were "95% there".  (Hub gives a running commentary on our assumed progress throughout each hike we've taken; he means this to be encouraging.)  So I got pissed and decided "Screw it...he can just carry me and my broken hip out of here then -- 2 miles -- uphill!"  I kept going.

The waterfalls were there, as promised.  But unspectacular.  My PBJ sandwich was the trail's end highlight for me.  I tried not to think of the uphill slog back to the car.  Instead, I started to listen to the "quiet" -- the wind rustling the leaves, the sound of the water trickling down ancient lava rock, the songs of birds all around me.   I saw the blue sky, the myriad shades of green in foliage, the brilliant yellows, oranges, and reds of flowering bushes along the trail.

So, instead of my usual "game" of getting through a difficult hike by pretending I've been taken hostage in a militant Third World country where I am forced to march through thick jungle with a gun at my back, I decided to listen to the birds.  That's all.  No thoughts.  No feeling the blister forming on my big toe, or the thorny twigs scratching bloody trails on the backs of my legs.  No wondering how much farther.  No thinking my lungs will surely burst and my heart will pound straight out of my chest, Alien-like.  Just listen to birdsong.  Hiking meditation.

Turns out, going up hill was surprisingly easy.  Much easier than going down.  Hub kept me hydrated with frequent gulps from the Camelpack.  My sturdy walking stick helped propel me.  My footing was sure.  My breathing was deep and strong.  My healthy heart was pumping and the birds were singing everywhere, lifting me...up, up, up...arriving at the trailhead much sooner than I thought possible.  I felt a grudging sense of accomplishment -- and wonderment that my meditation practice, the practice of "letting go of suffering", seemed to hold the key to my surprisingly pleasant regard for Hub as he "high-fived" me when we emerged from the trees.  On other "adventure" occasions there have been more murderous thoughts.

The fact remains, however;  I still don't like hiking.  Hub needs to join the Mountaineers or something.

At least, that's the view from here...©