Nature Lost, and Found

       How did it happen? How had I become such a "city-slicker" that I had come to hardly notice nature anymore? How had it become so extreme that a number of friends expressed shock at this month's resolution and asked if I even had a pair of real shoes to wear outdoors? How is it that when I took possession of the giant ficus for my living room, a neighbor felt I would be such an inept tree parent that he sent over his "plant guy" to advise me? How did it happen that in six years, I had hardly used the lovely courtyard that is a central part of my condominium complex? 

       It seems that for years, perhaps decades even, I had lost touch with nature entirely.

       Only one month later, it now feels so different.  I sit in the courtyard with Olympia nearly every day, watching the leaves move in the breeze. I visit the herb garden I planted, and note with satisfaction how healthy and green everything looks. I frequently sit on my deck, to drink a cup of coffee or read a few chapters of a book, or sometimes just to watch the sun set.  

       I am noticing things, too, that I had failed to notice before:  the softer green on the underside of leaves, the calls and colors of birds, the magnificent orange poppies growing in a nearby park. I find myself literally gasping with surprise as I see these things that had been there all along, but somehow had passed beyond my notice. 

       And every time I do, I stop...and I listen or gaze with wonder. It feels like something precious I had lost has somehow been found again.  And I am determined now never to let it slip away again.

Human Nature

       During the night, at around 4 a.m., I was awakened by the sound of a small motor putt-putting away. 

       I drifted off for a moment when it seemed to be fading. But then I woke again when it grew louder, and seemed to be moving closer. But then the sound moved away again. And then it moved closer... And I fell asleep again.

       This morning, when I walked Olympia, the weedy patch had been mowed.  

       I realized it had been a lawn mower that I had heard through our open window. And whoever had been operating it had been either sloppy or unable to see in the darkness. Random patches and the areas close to trees remained un-mowed; the cut vegetation had not been picked up and was scattered across the area. 

       But why would it have been done in darkness, in the middle of the night? 

       Had the owners of the property awakened during the night with the sudden realization that their property had gone to seed... and felt they simply had to take care of it immediately? Had the city perhaps warned the owners that an inspection and/or fine was coming the next day? Or were the owners annoyed that an unknown neighbor had reported them, and figured they'd get a little middle-of-the-night revenge by waking anyone trying to sleep?

       Whatever the explanation, the weeds are mostly gone. 

       And I, despite losing a few minutes of sleep, feel a bit better about the nature outside. 

       But I feel a bit worse about human nature.     

A Weed is a Weed is a Weed

       Does "appreciating nature" mean that I have to appreciate everything that's outside? Does it mean I have to do my best to enjoy the world in its natural state? 

       If so, I fear I am failing at my quest. There is a patch of dandelions on a piece of property across the street that has been really getting on my nerves.

       The patch, which is a lawn underneath all the dandelions, is about 8 feet wide and perhaps 60 feet long. It lies between the street and the sidewalk, beside a building used as a private daycare and kindergarten. 

       My condo complex takes care of the patch of grass between the street and sidewalk in front on our building. We have even planted rose bushes and other flowers there. Other neighbors and businesses similarly take care of their little patches -- planting grass or putting in rocky zero-scape landscaping. But no one is taking care of the rather large patch across the street.

       I tried to enjoy the area when it was filled with little yellow dandelions. "How pretty and yellow they are," I thought -- for the first day or two. But then, as always happens with dandelions, the yellow flowered parts turned into clouds of white seeds to be caught and carried by the breeze.  And the stems turned long and gangly.  

       I used to walk Olympia over this section of former lawn, but with the sturdy stems growing higher and banging into my legs -- like grasshoppers almost -- I started to stick to the sidewalk.  

       But Olympia still insists on walking through the weeds, sending the seeds afloat, or getting them caught in her fur. I sneeze repeatedly any time we were near the area. 

       Still, I have tried to put up with it -- although I have started to complain a bit to my friends.

       One friend pointed out that since I enjoy cooking, perhaps  I might find a use for dandelion greens in my recipes. She suggested that perhaps I could start though by farming the greens on her lawn. Another friend pointed out that keeping a pretty lawn is a tremendous waste of resources and harmful to the environment -- water is wasted keeping it alive, pesticides are used to kill weeds, gasoline is used to run lawnmowers. And truly, I agree with her.

       But in the meantime, the dandelions were getting taller and taller and more and more seedy.

       For a couple of days, I thought the dandelions might be dissipating a bit.  It seemed when I walked Olympia in the evening, that only stems were left on most of the weeds. But after two hopeful nights, I noted that the dandelions were always back in the morning. That's when I realized that dandelions -- even when they have gone to seed -- close at night and re-open in the morning. 

       Perhaps I should have found that magical or something.  But I didn't.

       Then I started to hope that the weeds would be mowed over the Memorial Day weekend, while I was away at a friend's wedding in Tulsa. Perhaps, with the extra day off, the owners of the kindergarten would finally find the time to to take care of the problem.  

       But when I came back yesterday, the dandelions were still there.

       I remembered a quote from Emerson -- something about a weed being a plant whose virtues had not yet been discovered. I remembered too that as a child, I used to make wishes on dandelions, blowing the seeds off the stem as I wished. And I tried again to appreciate the seedy growth.

       But then I remembered good old Gertrude Stein and her "rose is a rose is a rose".  

       So today, I turned into a nature-hating snitch.

       I called the city hotline one can use to report such non-urgent matters as unkempt properties, overgrown vegetation or dead animal bodies.  The person at the other end carefully noted details of the location. She asked me if the weeds were over six inches in height, and I snarled that they were closer to 1 foot high at this point. She said an inspector would be out by the end of the day tomorrow -- at the latest. And she thanked me.

       So formerly pretty yellow dandelions, enjoy your last days in the sun. Seeds, spread as far as you can today and tomorrow.  

       Your day of judgment is near.  

       I have spoken.

Bad Mother Goose

       With the end of my nature month quickly approaching, I asked a few outdoorsy friends if they might be able to take me hiking in the mountains. Although no one was able to schedule it in time, one friend suggested a walk in the park near her home. There were a number of goslings there, she said, that were too cute to miss.
       We scheduled our walk for the morning, and I told my friend I would not be bringing Olympia.
       The fact is that Olympia is not a walk-in-the-park kind of dog. Rather, we have raised her to be a city dog. She has joined us at five-star hotels and at art gallery openings. Her idea of a good time is a trip to the dog-friendly mall in the suburbs.
       Don’t get the idea though that she is one of those prissy little dogs who wears sweaters and is carried around in a purse. She is a slim 55 lbs and is shaggy, with a huge waggy tail. And although we go on four walks every day, any extra nature she gets tends to be from meandering between the dried flowers at Pier One, or sniffing the fruit-scented products at Bath and Body Works.
       But my friend looked at me like I was insane. “We’re going for a walk in the park," she said. "Of course you should bring Olympia with you."  She added that she would be looking after a doggy friend of Olympia’s for the day, and the dogs could hang out together.
       So of course I brought Olympia with me.
       Sure enough we saw dozens of goslings, as we walked the path around a small lake. Some of the goslings were little yellow newborn chicks. Others were slightly older – now grey, but still small and fuzzy. Others were older still – their long legs and neck making them slightly gawky. My friend remarked that it was virtually a lesson in the life cycle of geese.
       The two dogs made no attempts to chase the little creatures. But even so, the mother geese stood guard and hissed at us as we passed. I watched as one rounded up her wandering baby chicks into a tiny area close to her before she turned to glare at us. Another shooed her little ones into the lake. It was wonderful to see these protective and motherly instincts at work.
       As we continued around the lake though, my own shaggy gosling was getting hot and tired. Olympia started pulling on her leash toward shady areas under the trees. I had brought a bag of ice cubes, and fed them to her one after the other. But she remained obviously uncomfortable. The other dog, on its extended leash, leapt in and out of the cool water in a nearby creek, but Olympia would not set paw into the running water, no matter how much we coaxed her.
       My friend pointed out some birds to me, but it was getting hard to pay attention. Olympia’s tongue -- purplish now, instead of its usual pink -- was hanging out and her fur looked droopy. I gave her the rest of the ice cubes and let her lick the water out of the bag that had held them...
       We all eventually made it back to my friend's home. When we got inside, my friend apologized. But it was not her fault at all.

       I was the one who had known better. I felt like a bad mother goose, for failing to protect the wonderful furry chick who relies on me for everything. 

The Herb Garden

       A few years ago, I proposed that a small herb garden be planted in a corner of our building’s communal courtyard. I had proposed it not because I’m into gardening, obviously, but because I’m into cooking. It used to drive me crazy to have to buy a whole package of thyme, for instance, when I needed only two or three sprigs to make a perfect roast chicken. The rest of what I bought often went to waste before I needed it for another recipe.
       To my great satisfaction, my suggestion was accepted. Some flowers were removed, a space was cleared, and herbs were planted.
       With the herb garden there, I could just walk by on my way in from outside, and grab those few sprigs of thyme, or some mint or chives or a few leaves of basil. If I wanted rosemary, I'd bring down scissors and snip off a branch. It was all very pleasing.
       This year, however, the herb garden was looking a bit battered. Mint had spread like a weed. The thyme had new growth in the midst of a cloud of dead leaves. The basil and rosemary had not come back. And no one, it seemed, was doing anything about it. In fact, I had heard a few neighbors pondering whether flowers should be planted again in place of the herb garden. No one seems to be using it, they said.
       But as I had made my resolution this month, and since I use the garden – even if no one else does – it was clear that I should do something.
       So I bought some basil and sage and a small rosemary bush. I also bought a $1 spade from Target. And after keeping them all in my kitchen for several days, I finally got up the nerve to do take them down to the courtyard. 
       As if by magic, before I could even start, a small band of good faeries gathered. A neighbor brought down a bag of topsoil – and her cat, to play with Olympia. Another neighbor brought me a good quality spade and gave me soft golden leather work gloves to wear. Another neighbor came out, just to chat.
       With my small audience watching, I cleaned out the old growth and picked up leaves and scraps that had blown into the garden. Then I cleaned out some of the mint, surprised by the thick roots that came up as I pulled it out. I broke up the surface of the soil. Then I dug a fairly deep hole in an open area for the rosemary, clearing out rocks from the soil as I dug, and filled the hole with my new rosemary bush and fresh topsoil. I planted the new basil nearer the sprinkler than before, so it could get sufficient moisture. I found a new place for the sage. And I spread fresh topsoil all around. One of the neighbors brought over a hose and watered the garden. And he thanked me.
       Then, I went back to our loft, and filled out little copper signs I had bought, to identify each of the herbs. I placed them just so in the garden.
       And I felt, for a few moments, like little Mary in Frances Hodgson Burnett’s, The Secret Garden. That story, of a lonely girl bringing a garden back to life, was one of my favorite books growing up.
       Then, I looked down at my strangely itchy right arm and saw that I had a rash, extending all the way up to my shoulder– starting at my wrist, where the work gloves had ended. 

       By bedtime that night, the rash had turned into red welts streaking across my arm.
       But I didn’t care. I knew the welts would fade, eventually. I felt grateful that the soft leather gloves had protected my hands.

       And I went to sleep with thoughts of little Mary and her beautiful garden.

Weekend Update

        Tom was a little peeved when I told him I had bought new patio furniture.

       "You did it without discussing it with me. Just like you brought home that giant tree," he said, in an accusing tone. 

       That was the first he had mentioned the 12-foot ficus in several days. His initial thoughts about the tree (for those who missed his comments to my May 6 posting) were, "I hate plants. Always have. And this one is the biggest indoor plants I have ever seen! It dominates the space and makes the place look like some kind of arboretum." As I had asked though, he had agreed to give it some time to see if it would grow on him, and he had said almost nothing about in the days since then. I had kind of hoped that he had forgotten about it somehow.

       But suddenly, with the new patio furniture basking in the sunshine on our deck, I realized the tree might be in some danger.  Or at least that Tom and I were in danger of having a fight over it. I had, I admit, grown rather fond of the green monstrosity.

       Tom said nothing more when he came home from work that day.

       But on Saturday morning, he finally said, "I don't like that tree."

       By coincidence, my ability to hear had disappeared, so I didn't feel the need to respond.

       But Tom persisted. "Can't it be moved somewhere else?"

       What was that? My hearing was back, and it sounded like a compromise was possible, and without even having an argument first! 

       The previous owner had cleverly placed the tree on a small wheeled stand, so I started to move it to different places in our home, and sought Tom's opinion on every placement. Every place was better, it seemed, than where it had been -- even right in the middle of the living room.  What Tom didn't want, I realized, was a tree invading the library. 

       When I finally wheeled the tree to a place beside our television, Tom said, "That's it. That's much better!"  And just like that, the tree, it seems, had found a permanent home.

       But there was still the new patio furniture to deal with.

       So for dinner on Sunday, I decided we would dine al fresco. It had been a beautifully hot day, and the evening was still magnificently warm. I grilled some buffalo burgers and made Tom come outside to eat them.

       By the time we finished, the sun had set, coloring the sky red and orange in its wake and turning the mountains into lavender and purple majesties.

       I asked Tom if the new chairs were comfortable, and he agreed that they were.

       Perhaps 15 more minutes passed. And then Tom said, "That's a million dollar view."

       I agreed. I also pointed out that it was nice to be able to enjoy it outside for one of the first times in six years of living here.

       Tom looked at me sideways and didn't respond.

       But I refused to give up. After a few minutes, I said, "You can say that the patio furniture was a good idea, you know."

       Again, Tom didn't respond. And again I didn't give up.  "Come on," I said, "You can admit it."

       He still was silent. And although a little voice was telling me to stop, I just couldn't help myself. "Come on, admit it," I said. 

       I recalled my older brothers torturing each other when I was growing up, one ordering the other to surrender by saying "Uncle." I was sure Tom had similar memories from his own childhood.

       Even so, I repeated, "Admit it." 

       And looking out at the magnificent view, Tom finally mumbled, "Admit."

Not Quite the Botanic Gardens

       Yesterday, I was planning to go to the local Botanic Gardens with a friend. She is a member there, but I had never visited in my six years of living in the area.
       But when my friend called to confirm plans, she told me that she really didn’t feel like it, as she had errands to do and figured that she wouldn’t be able to relax enough to enjoy the gardens.
       I, of course, hadn’t really wanted to go either. I mean, I figured I should go, since I have resolved to do nature stuff this month. But that still doesn’t mean I’m going to look forward to such things. So instead, we ran errands together and had a lovely – and productive -- time doing that.
       And in case it seems like I’m shirking my resolution, let me reassure readers that it wasn’t a total loss from a nature point of view. While out together, I took advantage of the back of my friend’s SUV to transport home some new patio furniture I had been eyeing for our deck. 

       So today, I can sit comfortably out on the deck and enjoy views of nature. Sure it will be nature from afar, but it is at least a few inches closer than simply looking at the outside world through the window. And that's an improvement, isn't it?

Getting Out

       Yesterday afternoon, a friend came over. I made some sangria, and she suggested taking it down to enjoy in the central courtyard of my condo complex. So we took our wine glasses, and Olympia, and went into the courtyard. A neighbor, spotting us, came down with her own glass of wine and dog. And the three of us (and two dogs) passed a delightful couple of hours under the trees in the sun-dappled courtyard.
       This morning, on the phone, I mentioned to my mother how I had spent the previous afternoon. And she said, “So you finally used the courtyard for the purpose for which it was intended!”
       Is that what it’s for? The courtyard was created so that residents could enjoy spending some time outdoors?
       I must admit, I hadn't really considered that. I guess I had mostly considered it something pretty to look at – from my windows, or while walking through on my way elsewhere. 

       Indeed, the couple of hours outside yesterday afternoon was the longest period of time I had used the shared condo property since we moved here six years ago. It may even have been a longer use than all the previous times I had been out there, added together.
       I think yesterday may be part of what this whole "enjoying nature" thing is about. And when I think about it further, there probably is a whole world of pleasant places to sit – out there, somewhere...

Really Seeing

       Before my bird-watching expedition last week (if that isn’t too fancy a word for it) I had never before looked at a bird through binoculars.

       With my bare eyes alone, I could tell some birds apart. I am not a total city-slicker. So I could tell the difference between a robin, a seagull, a Canada Goose, a duck, a swan, a hawk and a pigeon. But that was about it. Otherwise, most of the flying or perching or pecking things I saw were just birds. In fact, Tom and I have long had a little joking way of identifying birds. If either of us saw one, while we were walking or driving, we would simply report to the other, “One Bird”, and the other would look at it and repeat, “One Bird”. And we’d chuckle a bit.
       But last week, I finally saw that there are some beautiful, significant differences between birds. 

       To mention just a few, we saw ones with stunning, bright yellow breasts that we couldn’t quite identify. We saw hundreds of black ones with a thick white line on the wings, that we identified as Lark Buntings. With the three of us shouting out identifying characteristics as we gazed through our respective binoculars, we all agreed that one with a spotted chest, a black shield at its neck, and a red spot on its face was a Northern Flicker. And we saw another – splendidly plump and elegantly colored in gray with black and white markings that had no exact match in the bird manual my friends brought.
       Indeed, few of the birds looked exactly like they did in the drawings in the bird book. 

       But when I thought about it, that seemed right to me. I mean, imagine a manual that identified a human – or perhaps a certain "race" of humans -- and the great variety of appearances, characteristics and traits of the multitude of humans who would actually fall into that category.
       In any case, for me, it was not that important to identify the birds by species (just as I don't wish to label humans). What was important was that suddenly, the birds in my world did not appear simply as an indistinct collection of gray or brown or black “one birds”. Rather, they had identifying characteristics that made them distinct and lovely.
       I have heard of people who keep life lists of the bird species they see. I have met one woman whose main goal in international travel is to see the birds of the world. I do not think I will ever be one of those.
       And frankly, the grasshoppers were a big turn-off.
       But I might enjoy going out once or twice a year, with binoculars in hand, to remind myself of the beauty and variety of the birds around me.
       And already, while strolling around my neighborhood, I am seeing birds differently – noticing the color of their chests and beaks and distinguishing features like dark “masks” around their eyes or the shapes of their tails. And when I do, I am truly shocked to have failed to notice these features before.
       So I guess that means that I am appreciating nature more already. Nature, as a whole, doesn’t yet thrill me. But I am able to see -- I am able to appreciate – more of what has been there all along.

Grasshoppers

       I had forgotten about grasshoppers.
       Or maybe I had repressed my memories of them -- as a kind of protective measure.
       All those memories came back to me yesterday as we entered the grasslands.
       In fact, I grew up in on the prairies -- in Saskatchewan, Canada. There, we didn’t have to go out of our way to see grasslands. They were around us -- everywhere, endlessly, often without even a bush to break the monotony (or beauty, depending on whether you like that sort of thing – which I, obviously, don’t).
       Growing up, grasshoppers were far from Pinocchio’s little friend, Jiminy Cricket, and nothing like the playful title character from Aesop’s “The Ant and the Grasshopper”.
       These grasshoppers were a plague, a scourge and a horror. Descending on us every few years, they devastated the farmers’ wheat crops. And although I lived in the city, the grasshoppers visited there too. 
       Imagine walking to school at the age of seven, and realizing that each little concrete square on the sidewalk ahead has at least three grasshoppers on it – all waiting to jump nearly as high as your head the moment you get close. Imagine at the age of ten, one of these two-inch hard-bodied monsters leaping again and again between your bare leg and the inside of your trendy super-flared jeans. Imagine at the age of 15, gleefully riding a speedboat to the center of a lake, looking forward to water-skiing, and then leaping in the water only to realize that the entire surface of the lake is covered with drowning, struggling grasshoppers -- only a few inches below your eyes. 

       Then maybe you can begin to understand why, 30 years later, I became increasingly quiet as we drove into the grasslands and found grasshoppers leaping about. Maybe you can understand why the little hairs on my arms stood on end, and didn’t lie down again.
       I quietly mentioned to my friends, a terrific retired couple, that I was not fond of grasshoppers. But they, having grown up in a place other than Saskatchewan, laughed it off. “Grasshoppers?” they replied. “They’re food for the birds.”
       Then imagine, maybe half an hour later, a grasshopper being sucked into the car's open sunroof and slamming you in the chest and then bouncing onto your leg. Would you do what I did?
       I screamed.
       And then I screamed some more while I grabbed a nearby map and started swatting at the beast, who looked up at me and refused to die.
       The wife, who was driving, rapidly halted the car on the shoulder of the dirt road. Ashamed, I immediately reported from the back seat that everything was absolutely okay. Really. There was no need to stop.
       The husband slowly got out of the front passenger seat and gently opened my door. I told him all was fine. He stood there until I exited the vehicle. Then he started looking for the bug. And with a bit of direction from me, he found it -- still alive -- inside his baseball cap, which had been beside me on the seat. He lifted out the bug and then wiped his hands on the grass after it spit on him.
       Afterwards, the husband insisted I hadn’t really screamed. He said it was more of an “almost scream”. He said it seemed like I was actually trying to contain myself. Although his wife didn’t say anything, she was kind enough not to disagree. 

       You can see why I consider these people friends.

       We also saw some birds, of course. I’ll write about those in my next posting.

The Early Bird

       One of the problems with posting one’s resolutions publicly is that people take you up on them.
       So some friends invited me to join them on a bird-watching expedition today. We are leaving at 5:30 a.m. to drive out to some bird-infested grasslands about an hour away.
       If you haven’t already guessed, I am not a morning person. Furthermore, I can never sleep when I know I have to get up extra early.
       The birds better be really good…

Some Kind of Joke?

       Two days ago, while at a Target store, I purchased a tiny "grow-kit", which contains a two-inch-high pot, a soil pellet and some zinnia seeds. I bought it because we have no plants at all in our home, and I thought it might be a useful exercise to try to actually grow a flower during my nature month.
       Then, yesterday afternoon, a friendly neighbor called to say he knew of someone who was moving and wanted to dispose of a 12-foot ficus benjamina tree. He said an indoor tree of that size is rather rare and as we have high ceilings, our home might suit it. When I hesitated for a moment, he said that if I want the tree, I really have to come get it right away. So I went with him (just to see it, mind you) and with the help of two additional neighbors, a cart and a ladder, we installed it in our library.
       Have I made clear that the tree is 12 feet tall? That’s T-W-E-L-V-E feet tall. And it’s nearly FIVE feet wide.
       It is, obviously, quite a bit bigger than the single zinnia I was hoping to grow in a two-inch pot.
       Is this some kind of joke of Nature? The bird calls from a couple of days ago didn’t win me over, so now I have to deal with a giant tree in my home?
       Admittedly, I do kind of like it. While sitting on the loveseat in our library, I now get a leafy, outdoorsy feel that’s rather nice, and almost mysterious. It is like a secret tree house filled with books. What could be better than that? And this way, I can enjoy part of nature without actually leaving our home!
       The bigger problem is that Tom is out of town right now, and might not be thrilled with the new addition to our little family. He is even less into nature than I am.
       Wish me luck…

A Favorite Event

       Despite my general disinterest in active participation with nature, I do notice (and appreciate) some aspects of the natural world around me.  

       We have had some lovely summery weather here. The crocuses and daffodils bloomed long ago. The herbs in the garden of our condo complex are already plentiful.  But I have been waiting impatiently for one particular Spring event. 

       Although it no doubt has been happening for eons, I first noticed it a couple of years ago, and it has delighted me every year since then. And because I have been traveling quite a bit recently, I even worried that this Spring occurrence, which lasts only a day or two, would happen while I was away.

       But it started yesterday, and I was here to see it...

       Many of the trees in our neighborhood have remained bare through our otherwise lovely Spring. For weeks, I have looked at and worried over the naked branches. Perhaps it is simply because my vision has become worse over the last year, but  I could see only hard-looking brownish balls where the leaves should be. I feared that the trees had been stricken by disease.   

       But yesterday, several of the trees suddenly woke with a slight green, nearly fuzzy-looking glow. Although the branches were still bare, I knew that something was about to happen. 

       And today, only one day later, the baby leaves are starting to emerge. By tomorrow or the next day, the naked winter branches will be covered with new bright green growth. 

       It wouldn't be like to me to wax poetic about it, but it is clearly a sign of re-birth and change...and certainly an indication of the consistent power of nature.

       Readers: Do you have a favorite nature occurrence like this?  Please post your replies. Perhaps we can learn to better see such moments through each other's eyes...

Nice try, Nature

       Yesterday morning, while walking Olympia, I heard an owl hooting somewhere in the distance. 

       It was a lovely sound -- pleasing and melodious despite the fact that it was simply one note, sounding over and over again. 

       Then, a few moments later, I heard another bird song. This was not one I knew, and was complicated and multi-toned.  I looked for the source and saw an unfamiliar type of bird perched on a building light fixture across the street. If I was more aware of bird species, I might been thrilled to identify it, but instead I just watched. 

       And then the bird, still standing on the light fixture, started to flap and flap its wings, as if saying "Lookatmelookatmelookatme".  

       Were these birds and birdsongs here all along, just waiting to be noticed? Or was this some kind of trick of nature, trying to lure me into thinking I might actually enjoy this month? I half expected Bambi to come tiptoeing out from behind a dumpster.  

       Instead, I noticed that Olympia had pooped on some nearby grass while I was mesmerized by the strange bird.

       As I picked up her deposit, I felt life shifting back to normal.

       So if it was a trick, Nature, it isn't going to work. I'll be a lot more difficult to win over than that.

       And to prove it, while walking Olympia this morning, I failed to notice any birds at all.

Re-Discovering Nature

       They say that April showers bring May flowers. But I wouldn't really know about that, since I don't pay much attention to things like flowers -- unless they're in a vase.

       I'm not exactly a nature lover. I like sitting outdoors, but preferably with a good book to distract me, or a nice bottle of wine and some great company. 

       I live in a state renowned for its natural beauty, and don't get me wrong -- I do appreciate it.  Hardly a day goes by that I don't look out my living room windows and think, "Wow, what a magnificent view." And I often notice the incredible rock formations and pretty wild flowers outside while driving in my car. I have even spotted an occasional coyote while walking Olympia in our otherwise urban neighborhood. 

       But I don't hike or ski or raft like so many others around here do.  I also don't cycle or jog or garden or fish or watch birds. And we do our camping at nice hotels rather than in sleeping bags with branches poking in our back.

       Some writers have talked about nature deficit disorder in children. They say that urban upbringing and parental fear of danger keeps many children indoors or in planned activities, rather than outside and exploring.  A friend raising her child in New York told me that she put her toddler down on some grass recently, and that he seemed delighted by the green stuff -- rolling around, tearing up bits and wiping it on his face, etc.  She realized he had never experienced a lawn before.  

       I certainly didn't suffer from that kind of nature deprivation myself. When I was growing up, I frequently played outside with my friends.  My family had a cottage at a beach for some time and I remember days building sand castles, picking berries and even floating dangerously far away on a raft one day. My family spent several summer vacations camping in tents and a trailer (certainly the reason that trailers now make me cringe). I have one particularly fond childhood memory of an afternoon spent tramping through a swamp with my parents, while I searched for a snake to bring home as a pet.

       But all that seems very long ago.

       So for this month, I am going to go out and try to re-discover nature  -- to see its beauty up close or be annoyed by its insects, to see its patterns and appreciate its unpredictability. 

       I don't know what will happen, but I can tell you already that I'm dreading it.