| Tuesday, April 4, 2023 | | Spring Wishes Granted | Since my last blog, the calendar declared it was spring, and in a sudden rush, when our temperatures fluctuated between the high 30s and high 80s (and just a few days ago they did this all over again, 35 in the morning and high 70s by afternoon), spring decided to comply.
Here is the opening stanza from one of my favorite e.e. cummings’ poems, originally published in 1950:
when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it’s april(yes,april;my darling)it’s spring!
Sanctuary spaces to me are precious. Over the years, my sanctuary spots have included particular stretches of beach in Kitty Hawk and on Pea Island, and the northern section of Jockey’s Ridge, a tracker’s paradise.
Since last summer, my go-to sanctuary spot has become Alligator River. While I watched spring’s exuberant entry in my own yard and neighborhood, I have really noticed spring’s markers while riding the refuge roads, and breathing out gently my own wishes. Cummings’ poem goes on to offer life advice, especially in this season of spring, telling us that wishing is having and having is giving and giving is living…but keeping (which I interpret to mean keeping to oneself, refusing to share), is in his words downward, doubting, never, doting, nothing, nonsense, darkness, winter and cringing. Yikes.
Here is my paradox. I love to recharge outside, in sanctuary spaces. I also long for others to experience for themselves the same sorts of renewal and comfort and peace and yes, even joy, I experience in my best moments of connection—connection to all that is beautiful in our natural world, and connection to the God Who – I believe – is the ultimate Creator and Artist and Source and Sustainer of all that beauty and goodness. This dual longing, to receive but also to share creates the obvious conundrum, in which the very places which are quiet sanctuaries for me become more crowded as others seek (and hopefully find) the solace I crave myself.
For my part, I try to remember as I watch more visitors discover the quieter places I love that the best chances these places have of preservation is for people to know and appreciate and love them, as I do. My heart sings when I see a family who have chosen to come out in hopes of seeing a bear, for instance, rather than staying inside and just watching something on a small (in comparison) screen. That’s my education in Environmental Education coming to the forefront, too, I realize.
So what have I noticed recently, in my meandering and wishing?
Well, thistle has, in cummings’ words, seemingly “floated out of the ground” just within the past couple of days. In fact, I saw only one thistle plant with a fully opened flower, and several swallowtails (there were dozens flying about everywhere) had discovered this one flower and were vying for a spot atop it.
I’ve seen yearling bears, bears older than yearlings but not yet their ultimate full size, and the biggest male bear I think I have ever seen at the refuge, all in the span of the last week. No cubs yet.
I continue to sometimes see either a coyote (no collar) or our own critically endangered Red Wolves (unmistakable orange collar), most often fairly far back in the fields, and as I say to anyone blessed enough to watch them for a few minutes, every sighting is a gift—considering I have lived here 47 years this spring, and am only now seeing them myself.
A frisky full grown female deer ran through a field, out to the edge and up the fields, turned around and ran back in my direction and then back into the field she started from yesterday morning, giving me my best running deer image ever. (Yes, I told her she was beautiful; yes, I thanked her.) A couple nights ago the father of the Red Wolf litter born last spring trotted across a field with another wolf right at sunset, and a few mornings back, a coyote and bear grazed in a field together. I saw my first Barred Owl of the year last week, and am looking forward to watching new owlets once they hatch, fledge and come into the open later this season.
I always go into the refuge wishing for some connecting experience. Sometimes I see iridescence shimmering in the sky above. Going at dawn and dusk often means spectacular color in the sky sometimes mirrored below. Almost always I see Great Blue Herons, intent on their foraging at a canal edge, and Northern Harriers, such acrobatic flyers, maneuvering low over the fields, and Red Tail Hawks silently watching over the landscape from their high perches. After years of never seeing a Kestrel, I have watched a couple this winter-into-spring, and just a few days ago, added a new bird to my life list, a Common Yellowthroat, which my friend and fellow photographer Joyce Edwards identified for me. Another local photographer, Mark Buckler, pointed out a Bittern to me the other evening that I surely would have missed; while I have seen one at Pea Island and Bodie Island, I have never seen one here. Yesterday I paused at a tiny spot where one of the roadside canals widened a wee bit, recognizing this was exactly the sort of place my younger childhood self would have sat for hours, watching dragonflies and butterflies and hoping for a turtle or a frog. I guess I have always been who I really am—I just did not always recognize myself in my younger years.
What are you breathing and wishing for this spring? Here are some of my wishes granted below, from the "inner banks."
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click for larger image | Sometimes the first gift is in the landscape. We had temps in the 30s a few days ago at dawn. |
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click for larger image | And THIS bear, a huge male, is the largest bear I think I have ever seen out here. Who says you can't thrive on a plant-based diet? |
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click for larger image | These you can't miss! I love them, though they have a bad rep. To me they speak of releasing what we no longer need, and cleaning up our messes. |
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posted by eturek at 3:06 PM |
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