Marveling, Just Plain Marveling

The warmth returned just like that, overnight, and we flew out of doors, shedding layers, shedding clothes, embracing the sun on our skin, the wind in our hair, the smells in our noses. I emulated the winter fireflies and oriented south, not missing a moment. 

The frigid, teeth-rattling, snowy days of winter ended.

The hermit thrush who sheltered out the south door, under the steps, depuffed and went back to their private habits.

The rafts of ducks concentrated on the nonfrozen water moved on. 

The bird-flu killed waterfowl, dead and frozen on the ice, sank and returned to Earth.

The killdeer stopped skating and started running again. 

Then, the rain fell and we knew it was going to happen. The forecast was perfect: rain, warm rain, warm rain at night. What a recipe for amphibian magic! There were already a few early arrivals in the watery pools on this 3.5 acres: western chorus frogs in the frog pond, one or two wood frogs in the vernal pool.

The rain started slow and steady as the day shifted to night. I sat on the floor, cross legged by the open window, both elbows on the sill and listened to the music of spring rain. All I could think about were these little porous bodies that weren't yet in the pools, but were instead in the forests and fields, their main homeland, feeling the rains and feeling the pull to the pools. The pull to go. The pull to the present and to the future, to make more frogs and salamanders; utterly linked to this watery world. In my mind's eye, I could see the salamanders put one leg in front of another, all four of them, marching forward purposefully. Tails dragging on wet leaves, over wet logs, across roads. Spotted salamanders, unisexual ambystomid salamanders, tiger salamanders. Swaying, swaying, making their way.

I could see the wood frogs hopping, the spring peepers hopping, the western chorus frogs hopping... feeling the wet on their bodies. This is their world, their element, their perfect moment. What must it be like after that long journey, over logs and branches and leaves and stalks and fruits and pinecones to finally slip your body into that pool of water? 

Winter cold water. The water which is essential, which pulled them there. They slip in and suddenly they are right there, in the moment and they might swim to the bottom doing little dances, laying spermatophores, picking up spermatophores, or floating on the water, clinging to the edges, singing and singing. The females are there too. It's a ritual, a sacred ritual and the union comes naturally. The egg laying is natural. The egg laying is ancient. The future all secure right there in that watery pool. That one pool that was the birth place to many who returned. The draw of the home land that strong. There are the travelers though too. Always the travelers. Those keeping species diverse and rich and always alive with new ideas and ways of being. 

Western-chorus frog egg masses:

Again, what must it feel like? That first dip in that pool? It makes me smile just to think about it because it must be wondrous. Like the journey was worth it. As I sit here and listen with the open window, the wood frogs sound louder. Maybe more have joined. The perfect night. The perfect amphibian night. 

Bullfrog, year-round resident:

Life goes on and I hope to meet them once again as they wander far and wide this summer. 

Spring Peeper during summer resting on White Ash:

Wood Frog during summer visiting a bird bath:

In his song, Hypersonic Missiles, Sam Fender asks: "Can I say that I've lived my life?" This is not a new question in the human world, but it struck a chord in me when I heard it. I reflected on the question and I quickly knew, YES! I've lived my life by loving. Especially by loving outside of my species, Homo sapiens. I love the caterpillars, the woodland wildflowers, the insects, the frogs, the salamanders, the trees, the shrubs, the squirrel tucked away in the soffit of our house - the underrepresented, the non-included, the non-mentioned lives amongst much of humanity. By unconsciously opening my heart to all these brilliant, beautiful lives, I've lived my life. What a great realization. What a great life. 

We observe nonhuman life in a marveling sort of way. How is this world so magnificent? So beautiful? So receptive to love and care?

From our home to yours, we wish you warmth.

We also wish you much joy and marveling at the world we live in and on. All we have to do to witness is go outdoors and open our hearts. Even when it's freezing.

Happy Spring Equinox dear friends!

Wild yam emptied seed pod:

Snow trillium:

Highland County field station, where new land restoration magic is happening. More next time!

Soundtracks:

Let Things Go - Caamp

Go - Indigo Girls

F***** Up - Macklemore

Oh my gosh, Fruition!

Fruition is on my mind lately as I observe this 3.5 acres after almost 14 years of restoration and watching the nonhuman lives return. Our hearts truly beat faster, recognizing what is happening here; what sharing space gives nonhuman lives and what they give us. It seems too good to be true...that there is hope, that there is action that leads to this hope. Can we laugh or yell or smile too-big together?! If we were together I think I would rush around and hug every last one of you and perhaps we might even jump up and down!

Vernal witch-hazel, Hamamelis vernalis, offers the most seductive, intoxicating scent I've yet experienced in my 45 years of life. I think Steve would agree, but I am writing so I will use my age. He looks my age anyways, so why not? I can't not walk by these blooms and inhale. Sometimes the fragrance wafts west, sometimes north, always carried by the winds of the day. North is when I can't forget they are there because the trail passes by. I walk by, I have things on my mind to go and do and then the plant re-commands my mind. It is suddenly the most important part of my day. The blooms tell me they are there and they have something to give. I go inhale and inhale and inhale. I even start to smile. Sometimes I choke up and shed a tear or two. The joy and awe is that real! When I am deep in the plant inhaling, I notice the small bodied invertebrates eating and how they spend the night tucked into the blooms. I wonder what it might be like to tuck myself into a bloom of riches like that? 

Common hazelnut, Corylus americana, blooms and fruits in the circle drive and did so in February. Steve found many pieces of hazelnut shell tucked into the wood pile this winter; all the husks were chewed into and the tasty nut was gone, making another life anew, offering winter sustenance and an assurance to survive another day. Death may come, but not by starvation. I held the nut shells in my hand and I felt the power in those nuts. We have big plans for hazelnut and of course it involves planting many, many, many more. 

The male catkins adorn the hazelnut and shed their pollen..

wind blown to the receptive female flowers. It's a challenging time of year when temperatures are cold then warm then cold then warm to rely on cold-blooded insects for pollination. I lay in the sun on the days when the sun is out and always I think of the invertebrates and the reptiles and the amphibians. Powered not by warm blood, but by warm sun or warm temperatures. Fueled by warmth, I feel kinship and I feel deep respect.

Part of our land tending is thinning abundant staghorn sumac here and there to allow diversity to thrive. The sumac stalks needed thinned and we needed a protective fence for chard and beet greens so we made a dead hedge. Two tasks accomplished with nothing purchased; that's the kind of labor we enjoy! The dead hedge made out of soft pithed sumac will offer many nesting sites for native bees and we look forward to watching their excavations and contentment at finding shelter for their young.

Sunny days invite us outdoors and so we unearth buried pots of American persimmons and planted cuttings of elderberry. The elderberry cuttings came from trimmings of a plant overhanging the path by a lot. Half of the unearthed persimmon bareroots are tiny and were sorted out by me and placed in the compost pile by Steve, buried even so I couldn't see them. I thought of them all night during my sleepless hours and woke to tell Steve we better plant some of them. He didn't disagree and seemed quite ready to unearth their potential once again. He soaked them all day to rehydrate their roots. I stuck them as a very large bunch into soil to keep their roots safe until warmer months arrive. 

Our first American toad observation happened right in the area we walked unearthing plants, planting plants and building the dead hedge. Steve saw them first and freaked out for almost stepping on them. He marked their location so as we worked we could be mindful. All day we worked on the sumac dead hedge and checked on the toad. The toad eventually dug themself a very nice divot into the earth and rested till dark. The next day we checked and they were gone. The night they left was warm and moist. Did they go to the pond? To another spot to tuck themselves back into an earthen chamber to wait for more consistent warmth? I sat down next to their empty hole and I stuck my fingers in there. The soil was loose, but with structure, cool, but warm. I rested with my fingers in there and thought about this toad with a whole entire life that is theirs and not mine.

A brown thrasher spent the first part of winter here; our last sighting was the very end of February when the temperatures warmed and the birds transitioned. For a few days no dark-eyed juncos, white-throated sparrows or tree sparrows were here. The red-winged blackbirds and rusty blackbirds moved on. The fox sparrows arrived a few days later with more juncos, more white-throated sparrows. The thrasher must have left when the birds felt the call to push on. It was bittersweet to say goodbye, but this land that wants to hold life, offered sustenance to a bird that usually doesn't winter here. The fruits and seeds we laid our hopes and dreams on came to fruition. Others still have yet to come to fruition, but they are growing and they tell us they are working on it. To give them time and space. Time. Time. Time. Space. Space. Space. 

While the weather swung back and forth and birds came and went, Steve worked on the Countess in preparation for our seasonal habitation at Persimmon South. This field station will offer us access to more areas to explore, more land to tend. The space is small and mostly furnished with material goods we already had. It's a funny thing, being able to make a second space to live out of with things we already have. We spent a weekend there not too long ago working on cutting in our first trail. It's so very exciting! This trail will offer us a place to walk and tend without smashing little ones under our feet. We worked on the north facing slope first because we are planning on planting back all those woodland plants that should be there and that will thrive there, but that aren't there for many reasons. I can hardly think of anything else right now other than those woodland plants. Susan Leopold of United Plant Savers (one of our most favorite nonprofits!!) and Lyla June both presented talks and commented how it's almost as if or is that many of these plants need us humans. They need our tending. They did evolve with us. How can it be any other way? This adjustment in our thinking is changing everything. There will be much more on this in the future via our videos and writings, I am certain.

Hiking miles with Steve, immersing ourselves in nature, is where we regenerate. It gives us something to give. Hiking gives us body movement, space, observation of many other beautiful lives. Hiking brings to fruition our dreams in the cleansing and clarity always offered. It always brings us outside ourselves. What might it be like to be a carnivorous lacewing larvae, disguising ourselves with lichens and mosses to find dinner? To have shelter on a tree?

What might it feel like to be a bumble bee queen, newly awakened and still wet, but on the south warm side of a tree?

Wisdom we do not have, but this mighty, old Red Maple at Knox Woods State Nature Preserve offers much. We enjoy spending time with them and basking in the fruition of their size, of their life, of our lives, of plants bearing their riches.

Thanks for following along with us all these years and taking such significant action in your own way to safeguard this place we all call home. We appreciate you more than you will ever know!

The Acts of Presence and Acceptance

The quiet of winter arrived awhile ago and we work to accept it and to know it, even when we least want to. Winter bird friends like the downy woodpecker, Carolina chickadee, tufted titmouse, and white-throated sparrow perk up the mood. Sometimes an American robin flock is around and one or two will sing. A northern cardinal started singing their spring song a few days ago and it stopped both of us in our tracks as we toured around the Old Field trail. We stood perfectly still, greedily slurping up the refreshment of joy in that song. 

Warmth from the woodstove and bright colors helps us all to settle somewhat into this time of stillness; we aren't still people though and so it's a season of acceptance, but also unease.

The wildlife cam offers glimpses of our wildlife friends and tells more full stories than we often witness. The downy woodpeckers visit the feeders, they visit the bath, they tap on the cup plant seed stalks and we now know that sound. Just the tap, tap, tap with a particular speed and strength tells us a downy is present.

The Carolina chickadees frequently chatter. Their effusive energy is inspiring. 

While hiking at Highlands Nature Sanctuary, we noted two resting insects on an American beech tree trunk: a dagger moth caterpillar and...

a two spotted tree cricket female. The sunshine was out on the tree cricket so she kept moseying on, but the caterpillar chilled in place. We wondered if a Carolina chickadee would like to eat them at this time of year? Or maybe a Carolina wren? Or if maybe the caterpillar had a plan to get the heck off that exposed trunk?

The Highland Nature Sanctuary and the Appalachian Forest Museum is around the corner from where we purchased our other little patch of land to restore to a diverse wild wonderland. It's inspiring to spend time amongst this community of Earth lovers and supporters.

Lodging is nearby and offers views like this of the Rocky Fork Gorge: 

Bats hibernate in some of the caves nearby and we got to tour one on our last visit since the bats had yet to hibernate. It was fascinating to walk through that space and imagine the shelter and optimum temperatures that are offered to the survivor bats, the ones that survive white-nose syndrome and hazards of life. What a gift to be in their space for just a moment.

Back at home, mourning doves like the seed offered in our bird feeders and in the plants. They often rest by the stream on sunny days, always facing south. They love to bathe and they like to be together. Their flightiness always makes us cautious of our actions at certain times of day, in certain places. They are a favorite of many predators, but they are fast and aware. 

Wild yam seed pods cling to their parent vines and their paper thin seeds slowly work their way out of the pods. Who might like to eat them? Birds? Mammals? Both? 

I'm surprised to see Northern flickers still hanging around so seeing two on the bird bath at once delights me; they move around and they aren't always here this time of year. I wonder if they found a cavity perfect for them? This wildlife cam is like a glimpse into a secret world, the real world happening all around, unbounded by the comforts of a first world house.

Our oldest kitty, Minnie Pearl, likes to join the unbounded world to eat some Beak Grass to help her belly and sit with Steve to take the world in. Even though she is not allowed to hunt outdoors and she hasn't wanted to go outdoors since she became a rescued inside kitty, she reminds us that as life gets shorter, it becomes more precious and old behaviors change. Suddenly the outdoors is interesting again and necessary. 

We work on land stewardship and gather seeds at this time of year and move them around this 3.5 acres we call Persimmon North. The River Oats are stunning so we move it around everywhere. The American Persimmons had a rough year in much of Ohio, but our wild friends still enjoy them so we gather the fruits where we can and make little caches here and there - on this log, at the base of this tree, on this animal path, etc. They are always gone the next day and our smiles get a little bigger. Sharing feels good.

We sometimes put the persimmons near the cam so we can see who gathers the harvest. 

Sometimes white-tailed deer find them...

more frequently on this land, opossums find them. 

This time, a raccoon showed up too late, but if they find them first, they eat them right up. We talk with friends about animal scat because that is just the type of people we are and we note that if persimmons are in an area, mammal scat is filled with the seeds. It's a bounteous, much sought-after fruit. 

We mourn the loss of the most beautiful, prolific and cold-hardy American persimmons here in Morrow County, OH we know about and were fortunate enough to gather from and love. We don't know why they are laying on their sides now and why they are aren't reaching for the sky offering their bounty for years and years to come. We do know a piece of our hearts is cleaved off and buried deep within the black, blocky bark. 

Dark-eyed juncos don't care about persimmons yet, as far as we can tell, but they do love the little seeds from from various plants and offered seed mixes here on this land. A few years ago on the Natchez Trace, we saw DE juncos feasting on the little seeds of sweet gum trees. Those prickly, beautiful seed balls are filled with the tiniest seeds, filled with life in one way or another - new sweet gum trees or full-bellied dark eyed juncos.

The colors are mostly faded here now, but a few oak trees still hold their leaves. We walked by a mother red oak on our neighbor's land on a day the wind blew from the south. We walked north and the oak captured that wind, dancing and talking. I wondered about the language of the trees; it's not one I can understand in a normal type of way, but it made me happy, grabbed my attention and made me notice. 

Most of the migratory raptors have moved through, but bald eagles spend much of winter in places near here so when I heard their call while I was tending the land, I turned round and round with my eyes to the sky and I saw nothing but blue. After a short while, the blue jay told me they fooled me and I agreed.

The red squirrels are mostly quiet, other than their sounds of chewing, always chewing, on black walnut hulls. One sleeps in a cavity in the sugar maples to the west of the house and we like thinking of the increase in tree cavities, knowing every last one of them is full up. That's where I would be, for sure, preferably south or southeast facing.

What will 2024 bring? No one ever knows, but we hope to hike more than ever, tend the land with our new high-tech stewardship baskets and immerse ourselves in this beautiful world. We wish for you so much goodness and so much love.

Happy Everything to you all! Bring it!

Soundtracks for the end of 2023:

Barely There - Daisy May

Everything's Gone - Lydia Loveless

Old Pine - Ben Howard

P.S. My book is currently 48,000 words strong and I'm in the final edits this winter before submission. We will see what happens, but I know I can't wait to share it with you.