Nature as Antidote During Quarantine

            About the time I started hearing of the new Coronavirus, it had not rained in Northern California in thirty-eight days.  It was the driest February since record-keeping began, and since we had endured three straight Octobers of devastating wildfires in our state, Californians were very hopeful for a wet March. By the time we got our wish in early March, Nature was busy doing what it does every Spring: rebirth. The hills turned a dazzling green, wildflowers came up in culverts and between the grape vines in the vineyards, and hummingbirds dove down to partake. Nubile green shoots that would soon be freesia or daffodils poked through the soil, and the narcissus and hyacinths were in full flower beckoning to be sniffed. The fruit trees were budding, and cascades of sunny yellow puff balls were already spilling from the Acacia.  Passing beneath, you could hear the hum of the bees taking advantage. Little did any of us know that two weeks into the month, a pandemic would be raging around the globe.  

      On March 19th, all non-essential businesses in California, including the flower shop where I worked, were ordered to close and we were told to shelter in place. I felt extremely fortunate to have a space with a garden and a backyard where I hole up, a place I had made a haven over the thirty years I have lived here. 

            If there is one thing I have learned from this crisis, it is that the environment truly does thrive when humans step back. Photos from Nasa show our own for probably the first time in over a century, planet not enshrouded in smog.  And while there were no dolphins in the Venice canals as one doctored photograph proclaimed, I have definitely seen a resurgence of wildlife in my own vicinity.  Right by a road that is usually lined with bumper to bumper traffic, I stopped to watch a Tom turkey, his face electric blue with excitement, doing a mating dance for three undecided hens, fanning his impressive tail feathers and strutting hopefully back and forth in front of them. The first week of the shelter at home order, Californians were so desperate to be in the outdoors, that we descended upon beach and forest in multitudes, making it impossible to keep a distance of six feet from others of our species. A few days later, all state parks were closed, and soon, to rein in the disobedient, their parking lots too.  

            I think many humans are starved for a connection with Nature. We are clumsy at feeding this need, trampling the very wildflowers we longed to see in a desert super bloom, grabbing onto tortoises while snorkeling, harming them in our need for contact, taking selfies with bear and moose and other creatures that are wild and do not play by our rules.  We see beautiful rocks and petroglyphs on cliffs in Utah and want to take a chip home. We marvel at groves of Aspen in Colorado, and carve our names in their bark. The signs seen in many of our most wild places read “Leave nothing but footprints. Take nothing but photos. Kill nothing but time.” And yet our sheer numbers and lack of a true understanding that when we visit wild places, we are visitors in the home of other species, species equally as important as we bipeds. Maybe this time-out for humans will teach us that we are only one part of life on this shared planet, not the main event. 

            This shelter-at-home period has forced me to slow down and see all of this play out in the microcosm of my back yard, to notice more. I witness the day to day changes in the plants and creatures there, the intensifying color on the house finches, the lilting, descending notes of the golden-crowned sparrows. As one flower fades, another is just starting. Yesterday, I hung string on the fenceposts for the birds to use as nesting material and was ridiculously thrilled to see a bird fly by today with a piece in its beak. Connection. Cooperation. A future.

       Time has become fuzzy and like many, I have to think hard to recall what date it is or when something took place. The only constant is the season. Some have pointed out the irony that Spring is in its full glory when so many are sick and dying, when the words apocalypse and Armageddon are heard frequently on the news. But I am not of the April-is-the-cruelest-month camp. In a time of so many harsh realities and the anxiety of having very little control beyond handwashing and social distancing, I find tremendous comfort in the ongoingness of Nature. In this period of giant unknowns, with our understanding of the virus changing daily, there is solace in the fact that, undisturbed and left to its own devices, the natural world continues, even flourishes. It can manifest in something as small as a weed growing from a crack in a city sidewalk, or as recognizable as a Cherry Blossom tree snowing petals. The Oriels are back now, their dazzling yellow bringing me to tears of delight watching them cautiously dine at the jelly feeder.  There is reassurance in being able to count on something, to witness the world outside as it continues, carrying out its seasonal rituals of life and death as it has done for over 130 million years. The natural world can be an antidote to panic, if we are only able to appreciate that humans are a part of all the wonder, but certainly not the only part that matters.

Nature Crystallized In The Backyard

It is August in California, the "dog days of summer," very different here in Sonoma from those of my Midwestern childhood. Instead of window-rattling thunderstorms and the threat of tornadoes, cities around me are battling early and devastating wildfires, with a similar magnitude that Sonoma and Napa counties faced last October. The new normal, these colossal floods, droughts, hurricanes, and wildfires are called, but how can we help but see these events as a message from our beleaguered planet? 

To try and counter the upset and sorrow these global changes make me feel, I have tried to create a haven in my own backyard over the past two decades, and summer is certainly the most sensual time of year to appreciate that. When I reach across a tomato plant to pick some Juliets or Sungolds, the tiny hairs on each vine brush my arm and send up a scent that is instant-Summer. The lavender, humming with bees and the pots of Basil too give off a perfume that will always remind me of the heat of the season. A blue hammock sways mysteriously, even when there is no wind, as if visited by a relaxing ghost. I juice limes and fill the ice cube tray with their juice. Limeade. 

 I feed the birds and, more importantly, have many basins of water that are hubs of activity. Nothing gives me more pleasure than to watch the cycles of their lives, from courtship to mating to nesting to the mussy fledglings learning how to eat and fly. This year, I have seen many baby Towhees and Finches and Nuthatches and Bushtits and Swallows and even two juvenile Hummingbirds and an Oriel survive those precarious early weeks out of the nest, now confident and exploring freely. I fill the birdbaths and the bees hover around me, waiting. 

Then too, there are the occasional surprises  A mother skunk and two babies took up residence under a storage shed. The dogs have been skunked in the past and it is a pernicious smell that resists all the ways that are said to eradicate it, and takes months and months to disappear. So I am hopeful these new residents will mosey. They do not like light or noise, so each night, the dogs safely inside, I shine a flashlight at them looking for grubs wherever the soil is watered. At first they scurried away, but now they look up at me, perhaps recognizing a softie when they see one, and continue eating. I am about to try a radio under the shed or motion sensitive lights, never ever poison. Not for the rats that live in the woodpile and eat the fallen birdseed. This is where the skunks could be helpful as they eat small rodents.  Clearly, not all the smells are delightful. Case in point: a mole died somehow and when I discovered it, I placed it in the greens bin, not knowing that the following two days it would be one hundred degrees. Today, a vulture appeared near the bin on the fence posts if summoned. The bird was drawn to the carrion scent from miles away, a remarkable sense of smell.

My place is small enough that I can know every tree and vine and flower and bird and critter intimately.There is the fig tree that bears fruit lightly in July and heavily in October. The Pomegranate whose fruits are labor-intensive to juice but beautiful as decoration, or food for the birds when they fall the to ground and split open, revealing their glossy jewels. Volunteer Sunflowers from the bird seed that does not make it into a beak and happens to fall near a drip line. Honeysuckle and Trumpetvine that threaten to pull down fences in their will to climb. Some of the summer harvests are small but revered: the Padron Peppers that I sauté with slices of garlic and sea salta and olive oil, mostly mild but every once in a while, a zinger. A rose called Fragrant Cloud that fills the whole room with deliciousness. Soon, it will grow cool and the flowers will go to seed and I will not be able to see the things in front of me at nine o'clock at night as the day cools and every living thing gets a second wind. But for now, I have the bounty of Summer for a little while longer.

New Poem

Vernal Study

Past the Rattlesnake grass &

Wild Pea,

the waft of Chamomile crushed

underfoot-

Through the canary corridor 

of Scotch Broom, stopped

stock-still to watch

in the path ahead,

A flight of Swallows, busy

at a mud puddle.

One thousand pellets of mud carried by beak

to create a nest equals

one thousand trips between

this puddle

and the underside of that bridge.

Fortunate observer,

so quiet I can hear the air

being mussed by their wings.

And farther along, the trickery of fields

allowed to go fallow-

to become inviting havens 

for rabbit warren and clutch of eggs,

only to be mown down by the indifferent thresher,

bees still working the flowers of the uprooted

Wild Radish.

Dizzying change, Spring.

The fleeting voluptuary

of the Bearded Iris, their feather-boa throats inside peachy

heads. And like a favored, satin camisole 

they fray at the edges, & fade

to mauve.

Too, the colony of nests

under the bridge will crumble.

The new birds already able to soar,

to sip from the water’s surface

mid-flight,

no obligation to stop.

New Poem

New poem:

Real Time
By: Jill Koenigsdorf

The first rains
make diary
of the path.
The smudged, deep-clawed print
of Coyote giving
chase.
The precise punctures
of walking stick-
& crisscross hieroglyphs
of birds.
I measure time by birds-
First, the singing, then
what they carry.
Nesting materials:
horse hair for sturdiness,
dryer lint for comfort
Later,
the job of nourishing,
bugs, worm, a dozen times an hour.
The larger birds assess the two fatalities below-
Raccoons.
How did they die in tandem? Almost
touching?
I measure time by their transformation
The elements loosening
a tail, a paw
A scapula rests in the culvert
like an ivory moth.
Until one evening, they are only bones-
teeth so bright
in grin or grimace
under that mushroom moon,
Edgeless &
exploding spores.

New Poem

New poem:

Real Time
By: Jill Koenigsdorf

The first rains
make diary
of the path.
The smudged, deep-clawed print
of Coyote giving
chase.
The precise punctures
of walking stick-
& crisscross hieroglyphs
of birds.
I measure time by birds-
First, the singing, then
what they carry.
Nesting materials:
horse hair for sturdiness,
dryer lint for comfort
Later,
the job of nourishing,
bugs, worm, a dozen times an hour.
The larger birds assess the two fatalities below-
Raccoons.
How did they die in tandem? Almost
touching?
I measure time by their transformation
The elements loosening
a tail, a paw
A scapula rests in the culvert
like an ivory moth.
Until one evening, they are only bones-
teeth so bright
in grin or grimace
under that mushroom moon,
Edgeless &
exploding spores.

New Poem & Year's End Musings

Is the California drought over? Judging from the greening of the hills, the hopeful sight of bulbs poking through the soil, and reports that this last bout of storms brought nine inches of rain in 24 hours (!) I would venture that this has certainly made a dent in the harrowing lack of water in our state. It feels like a true Northern California Winter's day here today, a week from Solstice, the soupy grey light a sharp contrast to the dazzling green fields, the crystalline beads of water clinging to the tips of every branch and leaf and bough, . We have not had a hard freeze here in The North Bay yet, so some soggy flowers persevere. A good writing day, short on light, big on quietude. It is a glad sight and makes it truly feel like the holidays, the end of a very full and varied year.....that and my annual Wreath-making pre-mega-storm yesterday. Wishing everyone a Yule season with much to appreciate, brightness, and a healthy, joyous 2015. I am never sure who actually reads these blogs, but every writer is told to "amp up the social media," so I contribute to this page from time to time. Often, with poetry, as in the following I wrote just now:

Fern Lake

Witnessing Fern Lake 

recede 

these many dry months has hurt

my eyes.

I watched 

on each outing as

it went from 

healthy oasis, antidote to

the brown hills-

The electric cackle of a Kingfisher

as it zeroed in on a fish, dives-

& amorous duets of Mallards as they sleekly parted

its surface,

the “V’s” of their wakes forming

a second set of wings,

to a mere puddle as if someone

had pulled a plug, leaving 

gaunt Egrets and angular Herons to stab

at the muddy banks

in vain.

Now it is two weeks before Yule & 

the rains, at last, are back.

From my perch/my porch

the persimmons become ornaments

glossy orange 

against the wet, black, bark.

The birds here, closer

to Home

are giddy, shivering

with delight

in new pools.

And the pomegranates 

split wide, their

gory jewels exposed

Gape at the

drenched reveling

open-jawed,

another glistening

offering.

Musings From The Back Porch….

My back porch is the power spot, or as they say in Sedona, the "vortex," of my property. It is there, sipping a bowl of tea with milk and honey, binoculars within reach, that I do some of my best thinking and get many ideas for stories. I am out there in all seasons, hence have tried to make the surroundings a magnet, a haven for bird and beast. My panorama includes a fence that badly needs repair, sagging under the weight of dense and randomly intertwined Trumpetvine, Honeysuckle, and Jasmine. A bluebird box with three hatchlings peeping to be fed is next door to a Bat Box that I am hoping will draw some takers this year. Hollyhock, started from the seeds I brought back from Santa Fe, grows extraordinarily tall in its more cushy, non-desert home. Volunteer sunflowers are sprouting up hither and thither bellow the bird feeders, and Goldfinches, impatient for the heads to turn to seed, simply begin munching on their leaves.

Today, on the back porch, I was appreciating how lucky I am to be a part of the tribe of Artists, to have felt that kinship with poets, dancers, painters, novelists, musicians, the whole bohemian parade, since childhood,  that need to tell a story, to write it all down, to express. It is often lonely business full of self-doubt, this work, and just to know there is a community out there struggling in the same way is a balm. Call me elitist, but I do not think everyone and his or her Aunt Sally "has a book in them." I do not think my friend's twelve year old son or daughter "does paintings that are just as good as Picasso

." I still believe artists are special, that one does not suddenly just "decide" to be one.  How much of the end product is the result of discipline and application and how much just innate talent is an ongoing debate, as is the odd equation of success. But I believe it boils down to: NOT doing it, not creating/expressing/dancing/playing/carving/welding/painting/acting is simply not an option.

I was thinking about which of the five senses the artist in each given field needs to hone. Some are obvious: the Musician: hearing. Painter: sight. Or maybe not. I think the interesting work takes place where the senses overlap. The writer needs a hefty does of empathy. Perhaps empathy should be the sixth sense: being able to imagine what a totally fictionalized character would eat/wear/feel.  How he or she would speak. What their bedroom would look like. What secrets they hold. It is ironic that writing is such a solitary pursuit, when people-watching and eavesdropping are such helpful components to the task. I empathize to a ridiculous degree, helpful in the literary world, but what may be seen in modern parlance as "boundary issues." I have to turn away from newspaper articles that show atrocities, be they  starving children, mutilated elephants, animals in a factory farms. The anguish lodges in my brain and heart for too long and I have a hard time shaking it.

But the up side of empathy takes place on the back porch. If I eat a melon, I make sure to step outside and scoop the seeds onto the ground. I take much delight in watching a towhee hop up to those strange and delicious seeds and taste one for the first time. Maybe a little part of me becomes that small bird, for  just an instant, experiencing something as wonderful as a new flavor. Maybe it is as Picasso himself once said:
"Everything you can imagine, is real."

Another new poem

First Summer

-For K

I am a happy insomniac-

serenaded from midnight til dawn by

a lovesick Mockingbird.

In the light of day,

too softhearted even for the

flyswatter,

I access it all from my porch-

The way the tiny Goldfinches splash 

in a pan of water-

 feed each other

thistle seeds.

& I am reminded 

of you, the way you

care.

I could make a fine summer list-

Apricots?

Your complexion.

Ten feet tall Hollyhocks?

Your stature.

Then there is the way the breeze sets them

ticking-

floral metronomes

blessedly soundless so that Time

can remain an abstract, something

on the periphery.

The plums too could snap me back

into a world of hours, days.

The plums ripen all at once,

the ones beyond our reach 

plonk

to the ground, untended.

But the harvested ones,

jam now,

an open jar of it at your own table 

& I picture

licking it from your upper lip.

My yard is full of chase &

indolence.

Darting scarlet-necked Hummingbirds speeding past

floating Yellowtails hovering above a blossom-

Any movement more like a tremble.

The two kinds of sweat:

cold on my glass of iced tea,

then the other-

at your temples,

the nape of my neck.

Inside, a pint of cherry ice cream

puddles on the counter

forgotten, but not

the cherry stem

you tied into a knot

with your tongue.

Green leaves sag in the afternoon heat, the figs

pendulous & warm.

I pluck two from the tree, bring them to you

in the hammock.

It is there I feel 

I cannot contain it all-

Not just the way we look

into the blues & greens of

each others eyes,

but more than that,

The way we really see.

LOVE IS IN THE AIR

The birds around my house are starting to hunt for nesting materials and the ones not at that stage are singing their hearts out (the males) trying to impress a potential mate. I always think the males in the human kingdom could learn a lot from birds: the singing, the beautiful plumage....the effort. It is a magnificent sight to see the male hummingbirds soar high in the Spring, then just dive down full speed at the exact angle that best shows off the sunlight illuminating the red plumage at their throats, all to wow the females.  Or the redwing blackbirds with their epaulets in full flame and fluff trilling out their liquid song in the cattails. All this color and song and courtship is a giddy thing. 

For the birds that are at the nesting phase, I put out lint from my dryer screen or hair from my hairbrushes, draping the soft stuff in branches for them to find. I collect abandoned nests and find the practical beauty of them a marvel. The goal appears to be strength and coziness. I have seen them lines with everything from pussywillow buds to horsehair. I love that hummingbirds start gathering spiderwebs for their tiny nests because they are not only strong and soft but will expand at the babies grow! Even now, looking out the window by my desk where I am tugged outside instead of staying put and writing, I can see the birds, brighter than usual, busy and beautiful.