From the Notebook

I cherish a rainy day, because for once two distinct enclaves of my spirit are at peace.

One longs to be outdoors exploring.  The other gives weight to my desire to stay in and CREATE.

Spring and Autumn move so swiftly that I must admit I feel a sense of “panic”.  The kids these days call it “FOMO” which can be defined as the fear of missing out.  The phrase sums up my feelings perfectly.  The idea that I might miss the awakening of amphibians, the unfurling of a wildflower, or the whistling wings of migratory birds stirs my soul. Likewise, I don’t want to ever miss out on rolling a fragrant black walnut in my palms anymore than I’d want to miss the waltz of Milkweed seeds that spiral into the autumn air. Of course the first enclave nourishes the second enclave, and so both must be satiated carefully and respectfully.  

Writing, photography, and art keeps me fulfilled. Alive.  Storytelling is stitched into who I am so deeply that I’d likely fall to pieces without it. It gives me a purpose.  Afterall, people can disappoint you. They misunderstand you, complicate things unnecessarily, and sometimes create conflicts that never needed to exist in the first place. So it comes as no surprise that I favor to spend my time in nature or creating something beautiful at a desk.  There I’m safe.  Safe from combativeness.  Safe from guilt trips. Safe from the toxic behaviors that are innately human. Safe from…the news.

Don’t get me wrong, I love people, when they are behaving in a manner consistent with good humor, kindness, and value. But not once have I been gaslit by a toadstool.  I’ve never had an argument with a Red Oak.  I’ve never felt the sting of betrayal from a Bloodroot and a Killdeer has never lied to me. 

I know that people, least of all myself, are perfect 100% of the time. Inherently I’ve made mistakes, I’ve said things I shouldn’t have said, or acted in a manner I just described. We all do.  But it seems more common today than it ever has.  And frankly, I don’t have to put up with it when it is consistently occurring from the same sources. 

So today, I reserve myself to create. To ponder. To sip a tea while the pitter-patter of rain drops outside take me to a better end of the day.  The rain insisted I stay in, so I’m going to obey. And here, in my refuge, my window is cracked so I can hear the stories nature is writing on its own in this very moment. 

#outdoors #writingcommunity #nature #wildlife

 Today was one of those February days I treasure.

The sun cast a welcome warmth, and swaths of snow-bleached grass — still pressed tightly to the ground — revealed solid earth once more. Birdsong has begun again, announced by the cheerful notes of a Northern Cardinal singing from the tangles of a privet bush.

On my back, a backpack. Around my neck, binoculars. Cradled in my arms like an infant — my camera, “Cynthie.”

As I shuffled down the driveway at camp, I questioned whether I should tote the camera along. It’s heavy — manageable, but heavy. My bigger concern was the melting (yet still deep) snow, and the hazards hidden beneath it. A misstep could mean a fall.

I gave it barely a second of debate before deciding to bring it anyway. Experience has taught me that if I leave the camera behind, the woods will present something extraordinary — and I’ll walk home with clenched teeth, wishing I had known better.

Down the gravel lane I went, streams of fresh snowmelt snaking along the edges. In the distance, crows — and a single raven — disputed something only they understood. With each step on the wet gravel, Dark-eyed Juncos flushed into the air, flashing their white outer tail feathers against slate-colored bodies.

The trickle of meltwater added to February’s music. The faint “pew pew” of a Tufted Titmouse stitched itself into the soundscape and brought back thaws from years past in my ever-present mind.

At my friend Helen’s house, large patches of grass had already emerged. The plow had cleared snow there earlier in the winter, allowing the sun to work faster. I meandered the property, studying old farm buildings and scanning for birds. A Hermit Thrush fed quietly on berries. At my feet were the telltale tracks of what appeared to be an Eastern Cottontail. I had hoped for Snowshoe Hare — the hind feet were nearly four inches long — but the clear definition of each toe suggested otherwise.

I followed the tracks from thicket to thicket and realized the rabbit had made itself quite comfortable around the old buildings.

Three Eastern Bluebirds revealed themselves along the roofline, with another perched on an old wire. They dropped carefully to the exposed green and brown grass below, searching for food. Nearby, three American Robins did the same.

These were the first “hopping” robins of the year for me — a behavior I associate with spring. What good it did my spirit to see them bounding across sparse patches of green, probing for whatever sustenance they could find. With the soil still locked beneath ice, I doubt earthworms were on the menu. More likely the midges I’d noticed lifting into the warming air.

Later, I watched the same trio work the roadside where turkeys and deer had scraped leaf litter free of snow. Seventy-five yards farther up the lane, I found them again — this time feeding on privet berries. Any opportunity for food is seized. In February, that can mean the difference between life and death.

I underestimated the snow’s depth as I climbed down over the bank toward a field. The going was slow. I pressed across the open ground and into the forest, where the boughs of hemlock lessened the accumulation. It was clear the whitetails and turkeys knew this too. Their tracks stitched patterns through the understory as I paused to catch my breath.

I read the forest as I walked, looking for the stories it had written overnight. Beneath one hemlock, I studied a cluster of deer beds, hopeful for a shed antler. No luck.

But when I lifted my eyes — as I often do in hopes of finding an owl on the roost — I found something better.

A porcupine.

It lay heavily along a branch, basking in the sunlight. Through my lens, I could see its soft eyes glancing back at me — still, wary, but calm. It seemed to be savoring the 48-degree air and blue February sky as much as I was.

Not much farther into the woods, I felt the quiet nudge: best to turn around. Winter had softened my legs, and walking through snow demands more than pride likes to admit. I realized that however far I’d come, I had at least that distance — and likely more — ahead of me. When you’re searching for sheds and new birds, you rarely retrace your steps.

And so I walked back, sunglasses on, the snow bright enough to sear unprotected eyes. I paused and wrapped my hand around the trunk of a small tree.

It was warm.

Another trunk — warm as well.

The bark had absorbed the sun, and that warmth felt like a promise. The trees will awaken soon. Buds will swell. Sap will rise.

February offers this quiet assurance: winter is not yet finished — but spring is no longer a rumor.

It is on its way.

#outdoors #writing #wildlife #hiking #pennsylvania #february #valentinesday