Tag Archives: Weekly Nature Watch by Mary Richmond

Thankful for Nature

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Hopefully all were able to enjoy a nice Thanksgiving, whether it was quiet or noisy, large or small. We are not big shoppers in my family so Black Friday is not a thing we do. No lines, no crowds–just a quiet day at home catching up on things. Tomorrow is Small Business Saturday. I hope you’ll join me in supporting the many talented artisans and small businesses we have on the Cape. This is the time to say thanks to the independent bookstores, the small, independent markets and coffee shops, the local breweries and wineries and shops and restaurants that stay open on our main streets all year long.

It’s easy to find things in nature to be thankful for, but it can also be easy to forget to look for them…here’s my latest Weekly Nature Watch column.

 

 

Standing in thankfulness

On a day that couldn’t make up its mind, I stood listening to the chatter of a flock of sparrows in a nearby bush. Heavy lavender and gray clouds loomed overhead but from beneath them shone an eerie, almost golden light that topped the now naked branches of trees with its glow.

Leaves tumbled across the grass and around my feet while a squirrel stopped and surveyed the scene, perhaps to see what had me so entranced.

In this world of constant contact that is more and more ruled by screens and electronic communication, I was thankful for a moment outside. I had no reason to be standing there, I just was. A blue jay flew down from higher up in a tree and watched me, cocking its head from one side to the other. A second jay joined it. After a few minutes they seemed to decide I wasn’t dangerous to them and they flew past me to the feeder. A chickadee scolded me as it, too, came to the feeders but the cardinals just sat quietly deep in a bush, no doubt hoping I wasn’t noticing them there.

The longer I simply stood there, the more I could feel myself relax. I took a deep breath of the cool, damp air and I swear I could taste the imminent rain on my tongue. The smell of fallen leaves mingled with a touch of wood smoke from a neighbor’s wood stove. For a moment I lost touch with the world of deadlines, messages and to do lists. I was just a woman standing under a tree while birds and the wind whispered around me.

I am thankful for these little reminders that reality is not virtual or behind a screen. The cardinal hiding in the bush is real. So is the hawk on the top of the spruce in my neighbor’s yard. The clouds moved and changed shape and the ribbon of light disappeared into the gray. Raindrops splatted against the leaves, then against my face. It was cold, refreshing, clean. I felt my hair getting wet as rain dripped down onto my neck. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was sort of lovely in a way that is hard to describe.

And then it was time to go in before I got soaked. Unlike the chickadees, I couldn’t stay dry hidden in a branch of the holly tree.

It is easy to become overwhelmed these days. We are bombarded with images in an unprecedented way. We hear about crises that we can do nothing about, almost hourly. We learn of deaths that leave us feeling helpless and devastated and often hopelessness feels like the only appropriate response to this relentless bombardment of bad news

And that is why I look for things to be thankful for every day. Nature is an easy anecdote for the pain and suffering in the world. Not that nature doesn’t have plenty of these, but if we choose to look for beauty and peace, it is easy to find. We don’t have to go far. Sometimes just stepping into our own backyards will do the trick.

Being thankful can become a habit. It’s free, it’s easy and it can take place anywhere, any time. Just step outside. Head to the beach, the pond, the meadow or the woods. Take a deep breath. Leave your phone behind. Turn off the car, the music, the chatter in your mind.

Even rain, snow, sleet and wind all have their place. We can be thankful for the ways they nurture the plants, clean out the old and broken and help us feel refreshed and renewed.

Even in times of stress, crisis and unrest, there is always something to be thankful for, even if it is the simple call of a chickadee or a cardinal sitting quietly in a bush.

All content copyright protected by Mary Richmond, 2018

 

When Fall Colors Come to Cape Cod

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Cape Cod always gets her colors a little later than the rest of New England. Blame that warm air coming off the ocean. Eventually, though, cooler temps do catch up with us. Our colors are subtler than those on the mainland, but I love them. Maybe because I grew up with them and they’re what I know…

Last week my column in the Enterprise was about the colors of fall. They no longer allow readers to read online if they aren’t subscribers, so I am posting the column here. Please remember this is a fully copyrighted piece and is not for any other use than reading here. You may share the post, with full attribution.

Changing colors

The changing of the leaves has been a sporadic, duller than usual event this year on the Cape. There have been some bright spots but mostly it’s been lackluster, even depressing. For me, it’s been an example of our physical landscape imitating our political landscape, too full of grief and despair to celebrate much of anything. Many leaves have simply dropped, never changing color at all, leaving their trees naked and gray against the November sky.

The salt marshes never fail to bring a smile to my weary soul, though. They range in color from luminous gold to rusty tones of orange. It’s a fleeting wash of color, as if from a watercolor brush. I stop and take it in while I can, let the richness as well as the delicacy of color settle in me, to help see me through the long winter ahead.

On a sunny, warm day last week I took a quick spin around the loop of my favorite neighborhood beach. A lot of people were out, and many were up to their wader hips in the water, using rakes and clear boxes to find shellfish on the bottom.

Hundreds of sanderlings ran back and forth, grabbing little morsels from incoming waves. Gulls floated near the folks hunting for scallops, hoping to snag a free handout, no doubt. The farther I went, the more people I left behind until I was the only one standing on the rock jetty overlooking a sparkling sea.

A small group of ruddy turnstones ran back and forth, doing their turnstone thing. Some were in full winter plumage while others were sporting an in-between sort of look. I wondered as I watched them if they will spend the winter here or move on. They are late for migrants but there are always stragglers at this time of year. Some stay for most, if not all, of the winter so I guess only time will tell. I do find myself wishing I could have conversations with some of these birds, but alas, so far that is not happened out loud.

The snow buntings were right where I’d left them a week or so ago. A few horned larks, perhaps the same ones that nested there this summer, were foraging in the grasses. Hundreds of dune mushrooms spotted the ground as I walked through what at first appeared to be a barren land of sand and rugged grasses. This is a mound of sand left by the dredging of the harbor a dozen or so years ago. It has lost the poetic quality it had before its sudden and rather horrible transformation, but it has its own charm, if I look close enough.

I turned a corner to head towards the bay and what I saw nearly took my breath away. The whole foot of the dunes was covered with gold that glimmered in the afternoon light. The buntings flew over, their underwings and breasts bright in the reflected light. The rosa rugosa leaves, so lush and green all summer long, had taken on a rusty orange hue that was so delicious and wonderful that no photograph I took could capture it. So, I drew and painted it instead. Sometimes art does what the heart and mind see when the camera cannot.

A song sparrow stood tall on a spindly branch and watched me. I couldn’t help but think it is the same one that watched me last winter, spring and summer. I have no way of proving that, just a feeling. Song and Savannah sparrows are prevalent here and nest at the base of the rose bushes each year. They have some of the best real estate in town, though the winters can be brutal there.

As I walked back down the beach, the water sparkled a brilliant blue. The sky was clear and the sun off the opposite shore shone white and bright. As a gull called out overhead I couldn’t help but think the change of colors was often sad, but also sparked with a glimmer of joy and hope.