Owl Prowl

It was a brilliant, sunny Saturday  morning in 1980, and I was driving along a snow-covered country road in the   Ottawa Valley. My mood didn't match the passing scenery. Lost in thought about this's and that's and what to do about them all, I barely noticed it at first. A large white football with wings? Oh dear God, an owl! Not just any owl, a Snowy Owl. Practically floating just inches above the hood of my car, its wings steadily beating, and going the exact same speed as me! I have no idea where he came from, but I immediately felt connected and comforted.

Deep inside a childhood memory awoke of my Mother reciting, "A wise old owl sat in an oak/The more he saw the less he spoke/The less he spoke the more he heard/Now wasn't he a wise old bird?" That little nursery rhyme has stayed with me forever, and the wise old owl has been my "spark bird".  My Mom had died  the previous year, and I  believed immediately that this stunning owl, pacing me all the way down the road was a message from her. There were no words. Just peace. That road is about 3 km long, and that bird stayed above the right front part of the car the entire way 'til I had to slow and make a turn, at which point it drifted off across the field and over the horizon. I pulled over and wept.

The next siting was several years later. I had moved away, and then moved back again. And in the meantime, had discovered birding. It was another wintry day scouting out the fields and forests along winding country roads by myself. I often bird alone. It's my time to just be. This day was no different as I pulled over to take a look along an old fence line hoping to see a white oval in the distance. I rolled down the window, reached over for the binoculars on the seat beside me and turned to look at the field. And there he was! Landing on a fence post not 2 metres away! Feet first, little bit of  a shuffle and arranging his wings just so, perfect perch, and then he turned his head and met me face on. Staring, not moving. Considering. We looked at each other for about 2 minutes, me barely breathing, but breathing it all in. Then a big shrug and off he flew, directly north of me, across the field. I put the bins up to follow then, and watched in utter astonishment as he landed mid-way across the stubble, pounced on something, alit, and flew right back to the same fence post where I was parked. Now absolutely astonished, I sat and watched in wonder as he proceeded to eat the mouse he'd just caught for lunch. Slowly, surely, holding it in his claws, delicately pecking and pulling, and finally all done! Again, he turned to look at me, while I still stared. I whispered a quiet "thank-you".
He flew off then, and I drove away having just been given a gift  that I would cherish always.

It's all Hieroglyphics to Me

Hieroglyphics:  
"Hieroglyphic symbols, unlike letters in our alphabet , are used to describe what we would use a group of letters to- such as an idea or thought in a picture form. Like to describe the sun for example 

they would have a picture similar to the sun, or to describe a crocodile you would see a picture similar to a crocodile. While some of their symbols are easy to understand it took years and help from many artifacts for scientists to decode these symbols."

So saith Reference.com.  Like they're basically saying that uh hieroglyphics are like word pictures to convey an idea. 

Remember the ancient Egyptians?  They  etched their thoughts, mournful, mundane, murderous and otherwise all over the pyramids which are arguably the penultimate burial vaults on earth. In doing so, they unwittingly made Harrison Ford  and a deck of Hollywood movie moguls multi-billionaires many suns and moons later as they were inspired to create moving picture shows about lost arcs, sun gods, grocery lists and golden treasure in order to entertain us. 

IN THE MEANTIME, back to reality. 

Nature also leaves hieroglyphics  all over the earth. Within the  power of every creature is the ability to communicate, at times with intent. At times, not. 

Winter in Canada provides many opportunities to read the stories being told by fox, wolf, squirrel, mouse, ferret, raccoon, deer, mink, fisher, coyote...they are all out and about, roaming the forests, fields and farms. While they forage they write their tales of life and death  and now it is for you to decipher...

Great Grey Owl lands suddenly. Kills quickly. Leaves.

What hops along and lands on its little bum every time? (I don't know)

Squirrel? but what's the long deep cut made by? 

and what's the plunge on the right?

Steps in its own trace, drags tail. Nope. No clue here unless it's a fox?

 Ghost owl. Likely Eastern Screech. Dropping in for take out dinner.

Ah! This one I know. Winter s'quitter. Running around in loud, noisy circles.

Humans. Creating hieroglyphics.

These are a Few of My Favourite Things

I would love to soar above the earth, free to follow the breezes. Untethered. Accountable only to myself, or my baser instincts. But Free. As a bird.
I don't know why I feel this way, only that I do. And that one of my greatest life pleasures is being outdoors, watching birds.
This hobby passion has taken me all over North America and parts of the Caribbean, and now is the primary reason we travel. To see new birds. Yes to see new places and meet new people and have new experiences, too. But, those of you who share this addiction know. It gets in your blood.
I have over 25 bird guides/books, 50+ bird sculptures and miscellaneous pieces of bird art, four pairs of binoculars, 10 feeders, an account at the local feed store (!)...well, you can see that it is a pretty major part of my life.
Over the past few years, since starting this blog, I carry a camera with me (as well as binoculars) and I now have several hundreds or thousands of photos. Which I have decided to start culling and organizing a little...starting today.
So here are my favourite bird shots of 2011...no particular commentary, just that each and every photo is a memory of a small, feathered thrill that left me smiling.
Funny. As I age, I can't remember what I had for breakfast, or what we did on the weekend -but I can remember  taking every single one of these photos!



2011 was a wonderful year, birding mainly along the routes and rivers of the Ottawa Valley, and along the eastern seaboard, from Connecticut to Long Island, Delmarva, Cape May, South Carolina and all parts in between

enjoying many flights of pure fancy!

It's a Small World After All

For the past week or so, I have been ruminating. Looking around, thinking about this and that, bits, bites, books and birds.

Wondering what's new, and what's hot. Newsworthy, or not.

And with the exception of a few small things, I find that the more things change, the more they remain the same.

Friends and family and just plain folk -we all continue to struggle with:

LOVE

How to find it, court it and keep it.

HEALTH

How to be stronger, faster, thinner, smarter, harder, softer, better.

HAPPINESS

How to nurture, share, savour and care.

Besides love, health, and happiness -what else is it that the human spirit searches for? The degree to which we are successful in our quest can move mountains, molehills and armies of men.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

This is the lesson I have learned in the past year or several.

And it's not that it's good or bad. It just is.

 While visiting Montreal over Christmas, I came across this amazing scene in the windows of a little Italian restaurant in NDG. Like all things small and intricately wrought, it drew me in..and I spent a lot of time just looking at this amazing vignette. Wondering how it got started. Who started it? Who keeps it up? Who creates it? Who protects it? Is it a village effort? Who's hands have made the tiny tools? Who's mind has decided what's needed next?

Who sets it up? Who takes it down?

And within it all, there are a hundred stories being told.

Each one set up to let you linger, to question, and to enjoy.

Which I did. And which you can too.

Happy New Year. May your life be as full as this one!

Half Baked

They are half baked you know...the beans that are simmering in the oven, and have been doing so since about 10:00 am this morning.
I rarely make baked beans, but yesterday I passed the little white rocks in the baking section at the grocery store, and thought..it's time.
The recipe I'm using is a combination of what's on the back of the Thompson Pea Bean package for Old Fashioned Baked Beans, and my mom's recipe in her book, the The Northern Cookbook. Her's calls for stewed tomato as well as ketchup, vinegar, brown sugar, mustard etc. Thompon's omits the tomato and uses less salt, less sugar, less everything really.

So used  the lesser bits of Thompson's recipe, and added the stewed (home made!) tomato as well.
I put all the ingredients together into a traditional bean pot and stuck it in the oven hoping to be able to eat it for dinner. That will work.

Then I went Christmas shopping, gathering up the last gifts I need to make family and friends feel appreciated. It's so un -Christmassy here this year...no snow, mild temperatures, rain sometimes...just plain weird. The Ottawa River is still wide open and it's December 18th! While  family is spread across Canada and the U.S.,  some of us will be getting together while others will be dearly missed. So, must say, I'm not feelling the Christmas spirit so much.

The older I get, and the further away from the day to day involvement in my kids lives, the harder it is to find those little moments that say, "Ahhh, so this is Christmas."

But I do find it it eventually. Found some of it today in fact, when I was driving to town to shop and listening to CBC Radio and the Vinyl Cafe. Today it was  Dave Cooks a Turkey story day read by Stuart McLean. And it felt like putting on a comfortable pair of slippers after finally taking off the ungodly high-heeled boots that always scrunch my toes!

Dave got me to thinking about other Christmas traditions that I have -and carry just for me in my heart. Another one also involves CBC Radio, and Alan Maitland's reading of The Shepherd every Christmas Eve. Makes me cry every time I hear it, but they're happy little tears.

Another tradition I have is to read the Letter from  My Grandfather to his children during the World War II. It's a poignant, heartfelt letter from a father that I can't read without a kleenex at hand. I'm so proud of his talent and literary genius, and prouder yet to be a part of his legacy. My kids always used to roll their eyes and silently smirk the smirk of kids being uncomfortable with love expressed publicly...but they listened, and they each "get it" now. The love of family that defines who we are every day, not just Christmas day.

So the beans...back to what started this whole thought process. I finished my shopping, and drove home. I arrived to a quiet house, with a fire softly glowing and the whole place smelling like home made bread and baked beans. It was like walking in to a warm, gentle hug from my Mom. The feeling was immediate and comforting. Mom died in January, 1979 and I haven't felt her prescence in a long, long time 'though I do think of her often. This was different. This felt like home, a hug and Christmas.

And so I think I'll have to add home made  baked beans to the list of where Christmas lives traditions.

Sentinels Around Us

In any place, at any time, there are sentinels.  Whether we notice them or not, they are there.

Watching, waiting, willing.

Some are creations of nature. Some of man.

All have their purpose and their place in time.

The solitary wolf seeks the shoreline and safety.

A sanctuary where he can rest after the hunt.

Ever wary.

The stallion poses in perpetual victory.

Under the mighty steed's watchful eye we witness Wolfe's triumph.

For a moment frozen in time, he lives.

 

Now tethered to the land, she guides her journeymen and sailors salers over a concrete sea.

The sentinel wall of the armoury ensures that the enemy will be spotted well in advance.

Military foresight, man before machine.

True. North. Strong.

Not Free.

They stand on guard.

What if these wall could talk?

They still watch and listen.

The silent sentinels speak volumes.

ABC Wednesday

Light

Like a moth to flame, I am drawn. I sense it and seek it.

First light, a welcome sigh of being. Of relief. I am.

Uplifting, strengthening. Fulfilling. Healing.

It pulls me in, beckoning, luring. Promising.

It sends me off in different directions. Pausing for thought. Guiding me.

Reflecting me. A moment in time.

Even in darkness, I seek the light. I want the light.

I find no comfort in darkness.

I have no curtains in my home.