weeping willow

A year ago last spring I bought a small willow tree and brought it home for my husband to plant in the backyard. We had been surprised to come home one day to see the line of trees along the fence completely removed, stumps and all. Not wanting my sons to come home and see the starkness of the landscape without the willows, I decided to plant some hope. It wasn't really an adequate replacement for what had been there, but it was the best I could do. When the boys came home, they looked at the pathetic thing, and nodded their heads when I said someday it would be big enough to enjoy. I bought a tiny set of brass bells and hung them in the tree.

Last Fall, after the branches were bare, I went out to trim it up so that it would be nice and tall someday. I was saddened to find a huge bug infestation in the upper part of the trunk, and was thinking I'd have to start all over again, planting another and dragging out the process of ever having a satisfying tree to enjoy. I trimmed away as much as I could, but realized the damage had gone to far into the heart of the trunk. I sprayed it and saved a chunk to show a friend that's knowledgeable about such things, and she said it was probably borers, and that I might have to plant a different kind of tree altogether. Shit. I was discouraged, and I did nothing about it.

This spring it branched out and up and my son noticed it in the backyard when he came home. We stood and looked at it through the living room window, and he said it's really getting big. I started explaining about the borers and that the tree needed to be replaced, but I hadn't gotten around to it. He said, so it's damaged, just like us. And I stopped, and looked a the tree with new eyes, at how it was flourishing despite what had happened to it. And right then I decided that's it, the tree stays for now. We need to watch it grow and survive. It may fall down someday, which is okay, since it's planted far enough away from any houses, but for now it's a symbol of going on anyway, with life as it is. The weeping willow is still alive, and so are we.

Fledglings

On the next to last day of school, we had two new birds show up at our viewing platform! The magic school bus/portable ride was not over yet. We were able to identify our new fledglings by the parent robin that flew in to feed them big juicy worms, an awesome sight. They were huge compared to our tiny little goldfinches, and had mottled chests with pieces of downy fluff still sticking out from between their feathers. I had to go and get Cathy, for whom robins are a sign from her brother that died the year before I came to Shasta. We stood and watched them together, happy for one last miracle.

It rained that night, and I came to school afraid of what I might not see, but there they were again, sitting in the paper birches and eating juicy worms that the parent bird was easily plucking from the newly damp soil. All was well.

The teacher that was in our classroom previously had retired from Shasta, but when I saw her at an end of year party, I asked her if she'd heard about the birds outside her classroom window. She said that never happened when she was there, that it had nothing to do with her. And while I was more than willing to share the pleasure with her, I guess it did make me feel a bit special. I wonder how many miracles are all around us just for the noticing. Perhaps grief has just sharpened my senses and made me grateful for the simple beauty all around me.

And the most precious fledglings, my students, flew off for the summer with some special memories buried deeply in their hearts.

What a day, Glorious by MaMuse

Hallelujah by MaMuse

The Oak Tree

This graceful Oak lost a bough from the center of its being. The branches that sprouted from the trunk and roots each traced their own unique path against the sky, together forming a canopy. Now one of them is missing. A limb that grew and reached for the blue sky and danced in the wind under the stars has been torn away. It can't sprout green leaves or sway in the music of the breeze, it's forever gone. This beautiful oak will never be the same, but it will live on for many years, bearing the scar of what was lost.

The absence of Katie's presence in the canopy of our family has wounded us all. But we will live on, embracing her spirit with our memories, under blue skies and starry nights. She is a part of us all now.

Bidwell Park

I go to Bidwell Park several times a week to walk. I usually walk about 5 miles, focusing on the trees and birds and butterflies around me. The trees arch above the road framing a vault of blue sky that I never get tired of looking at. Red shouldered Hawks call and hunt and mate in this woodland, and Acorn Woodpeckers are everywhere. For a time there was an Owl living in a hollow half-way up a sycamore tree that I looked for each time I passed. Once I even saw a Ruby-Crowned Kinglet eating something red (tomato or pepper) that someone had dropped on the ground. Pipevine Swallowtails are everywhere with their black iridescence, and occasionally a Tiger Swallowtail flutters by. Hummingbirds and ducks and deer and squirrels also make their homes in the park.

the songbird

"A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song."
~Maya Angelou

Our 13 year-old dog Cosmo has decided to bark obnoxiously until we give him what he wants. What he wanted when Nola came over was a walk, and Cosmo barked so relentlessly that Nola and I gave in. I walked Baru and Nola walked Cosmo, and while the furry boys sniffed and peed on everything they could, Nola and I checked out the the landscaping in the yards we walked by and the clouds in the evening sky. The temperature was mild, not scalding like last week.

A bird flew over us, singing while it flew, and perched at the top of a small dead tree. We stopped near the barren tree and were treated to an incredible variety of calls and songs. It was a tiny, plump little bird, and it just kept singing. Nola thought it was lonely and looking for another little bird of its kind, but it sure seemed to enjoy giving us a concert. Once it even tilted it's head down as if to bow, letting me see it's dark little cap. It's colors were difficult to distinguish in the evening light, but it seemed pale underneath and grayer above. Then it flew away, and we continued our walk.

Small miracles remind me that life is still good. Small wonders like the little songbird giving us a concert, like the vibrant seashell rose blooming in the yard, or the clouds glowing with the setting sun. I don't know the answers, but I can still hear the song and enjoy the sunset.