Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

 

It’s snowing. So beautifully. Winter brings a harshness, a steel edged beauty hallowing all it touches. Tiny little birds hop about in the snow, prancing on the deck and driving the two indoor cats mad. The birds’ feet make patterns of lace on the snow. I’ve spent many a happy minute meditating on their miniature prints. And I’ve heard it from trackers that it’s possible to differentiate bird tracks. The key is watching the bird make the tracks and note every behavior while they do so. Were they nervous when they made the tracks? Hungry? Hopeful? You’ll only know these answers if you give yourself over to fully observing the bird. Eventually, as you mindfully observe and take notes, the tracks begin to lay out a story about how the bird felt and what goal it was pursuing while it was hopping around. The observed bird’s tracks will become familiar as the palm of your hand and just as the lines and scars on your hand reveal your life, so will the bird tracks will reveal their tiny secret life.

When I first learned about the ability to track and the resulting possibility to enter the thoughts and feelings of an utterly different life form, I was staggered. I still am. But what really made me sit up and blink was the great feeling of familiarity the new concept brought. “Of course, I can enter their world. Of course, this is the way to do it. I knew this all along,” a deep spot in my soul declared. Of course! Of course! One of my absolute favorite abilities is observing and now I could take that power and use it to enter another world, both bird and animal.

The snow is here and it’s swung open a magical door, a gateway of animal tracks. It only takes a moment or two but it’s worthwhile to bend over a few tracks and study them. First, of course, is figuring out which animal made them. Many animal tracking books and online sites are available for this. From there the questions begin to branch out: what direction was the animal heading? What portion of the print is the heaviest and what does that mean? It’s by observing the animal and then their prints that the questions are truly answered.

I haven’t got to the point where I can tell what an animal is feeling or thinking from their prints or but every winter I take a little time to look at different tracks. The marvel and beauty of the prints calls me to the future promise of knowing. Great things are done in little steps and this may be the year I pull out a notebook, dedicated to juncos, the tiny snowbirds I especially adore and note my observations. Two black eyes: beady. One breast: white. One head, one back and two wings: dark grey, portions covered as if by a cloak. Eagerly looking for food, head swiveling this way and that.

And so the knowing begins.

 

Comments (1):

  1. Tina

    December 14, 2013 at 11:14 am

    Beautiful…simply beautiful.

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Out for a Walk with the Wind and Water

I love being alone in the park along the river. As soon as I step out of my car, I tell that I’m alone by the unusual silence stretching out in all directions. It’s a special sort of hush because instead of human voices dominating the space, it’s the gentle call of birds, animals, wind, and water that fill the air. These are much more gentle and quiet for they represent a continuation of a certain life on this planet, a life much older than humans.

I glow inwardly as I walk the park alone and for the first time in days, I smile to myself. Some Buddha statues wear slight smiles, the internal smile to the eternal world and as the memory of the statues comes back to me, the pleasure of connection causes me to relax even more.

When alone outdoors, I can relate to myself most fully and watch and listen with more mindfulness. I hear the birds first—the chickadees scolding one another and sounding like sweet, soft toy horns and then the cardinals, chirruping and checking up on one another. The sparrows hop and cheep in barren branches, never to be overlooked and always numerous.

Then comes the sound of water, lapping along the riverbank, rolling itself under the bridge.

The wind follows, shifting a blanket of leaves across my path and swaying tree branches overhead. The evergreens branches issue a soft shirrrrr-ing sound as the wind passes through. They retain a green elegance while everything else is brown, stripped down bare.

After I have heard the squirrels cracking walnuts and rustling through the dried weeds, and after I have seen the wind ruffling the river’s top, then finally, I can hear myself. That sound is very low and deep and it takes me a little while to hear it, after the delight of hearing everything else. But it is there and it inevitably opens up what I need to know that day whether it be comfort, direction, an answer, a question, or all of it. It has taken my whole life to hear myself and I have paid a great price for it but I would do it again in a heartbeat. For when a woman has herself, the nightmares slip away back into the inky, black darkness and living life is hers.

And so the wind moves through the evergreens, it plays along the water, and dives between the feathers of the birds. It touches my face and we walk together, two entities atop this impossible blue planet.

Ouroboros in the Park

Japanese anemone flowers open blush pink petals in the park.  Their tall, delicate stems hold up the tender flowers, and in the centers glow tiny pistil-laden suns. Furry carpenter bees buzz in a frenzy, adoring the tiny suns. Like all true worshipers, they circle round and round the yellow centers, smearing themselves in joy and pollen.

I also circle a center, but the object of my adoration is the park itself. As the path guides me around and around, my body, full of the usual tensions and distresses, takes the cue, finds the beat and the measure and walks to it.

The English Romantic Poets of the early 19th century were great walkers and believed that walking was essential to writing to poetry. With the body busy, the mind can walk freely, investing in its visions and tunneling down into what were previously subterranean thoughts.

This small park is my open field, my verdure, my ramble through hill and dale. My feet move on, sometimes slowing to a near pause, other times hurrying, suddenly propelled by a new and vivid notion.

About the fifth time around, a sort of mesmerism occurs and I fall under the trance of the day. The circle becomes a mantra uttered by my feet—knees, hips, shoulders, and arms follow along and we head down the path. I must walk, I must keep walking, I must continue to walk and the resolution becomes a reassurance as a cool breeze fills my lungs; I am alive and refreshed.

I pass under the oaks and dodge their falling acorns. Sometimes I entertain the notion that squirrels are hurling them, but when I catch sight of their small triangular faces they look as startled as me. It is the oaks themselves that are throwing the acorns down. I momentarily consider bringing an umbrella, opening it when I walk under the oaks, but this an old consideration that I’ve been contemplating for years of autumns and I’ve never acted on it. Instead, I dodge and the squirrels stare hard.

Finally I have to go but the revolutions and bees in the park stay with me even after I leave, continuing  with their wheeling. They pass through the days and nights, rapturous and serene, monotonous some days and a miracle on others, and on most days both. They exist in the circle that is sometimes opened, sometimes closed. Within the circle, everything changes and nothing changes each time we pass through.

 

Kazuaki Tanahashi, Miracle at Each Moment