Tag Archives: nature

Singer of Birches

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The tree crew is here today. They came with a big truck and a chipper and had a difficult time lining up the truck to pull through the pasture gate and then turn around so the truck is heading down the drive. I stopped watching and went into the house. For the past two hours the team of three has been up the big maple tree in my back yard—well, two are up the tree, I think, and one on the ground. That tree is a glorious color in the fall, and then drops a thick load of leaves over my shade garden. For the past few years it has taken to dropping branches unexpectedly. Last month after a wind storm I discovered a very large branch had fallen next to the glider I had bought and put together in 2015 to honor what would have been my 50th wedding anniversary—-we made it to our 45th anniversary before Bill’s death. That heavy branch smashed a plastic side table and would have squashed me, had I been under it.

But I love that maple tree nonetheless. Bill and I planted it in 1978, the year after we moved here. We also planted the two willow oaks and the pear tree….too close to the house…and then a long list of other trees, some we planted, others planted by landscapers. Not all the trees have survived, but I think we planted over thirty trees on this property, and the edges of the lot are ringed with wild native trees, including hickory, persimmon, wild cherry, eastern red cedar, and tulip poplar. 

I grew up loving trees. I have early memories of the birch trees with their shimmering branches at our cabin northern Minnesota. My mother hung a hammock for me between two birches to the west of the cabin. I was three when I first rocked in that hammock, toes reaching for the blue sky and singing to myself. My father would come along and say, “What are you thinking about, CheeChee?”—-the name I called myself before I could pronounce Kristin. But I was thinking about everything and nothing. 

There were tall straight Norway pines at the cabin, too, more stately than my sister birches. On the hill above the cabin there was a Norway that I climbed when I was nine or so, with the neighbor kids. A young sapling grew up next to it, and I could shinny up the sapling and then grasp the lowest branch of the Norway and swing up onto that first branch. And from there pull myself from one branch to the next until I was high enough to see over the other trees and across the lake. I remember hanging onto the branches high in the tree, feeling the wind on my face and hearing the cry of the loons, thinking myself invincible. 

During that same time period we were living in Fort Knox Kentucky, in military rowhouses encircled by red clay, and there were few if any trees to climb there until we moved into a rambling house next to an old fenced cemetery  and surrounded by military barracks. But there was a big sassafras tree in the backyard, perfect for me to climb, with a low enough branch to start me upward and a very comfortable branch for me to sit on and sulk when I was mad at my mother…which seemed to be often during that time. I was in seventh grade. I liked to chew the young sassafras leaves and small twigs and smell the bark…it smelled like the South and summer. 

By the time I was in high school I had stopped climbing trees but I never stopped loving them. Their dangerous beauty surrounds my house now, and in the late summers each year I return to the Minnesota cabin, and sitting in the hammock I sing to the birches my sweet songs. 

February 16, 2024

Live Slowly, Move Simply, Look Softly

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My house sitter Marcie knows how to relish and savor my home on the hill, perhaps better than I do, because I always have a long list of jobs I must do. I look around the garden and see all the weeds I must pull. Marcie who also is a gardener looks and sees the flowers.

In the mornings when Marcie is at my house, she likes to take her mug of freshly brewed coffee outside to sit on the wooden bench under the maple tree. Kali my old dog is still inside, asleep and snoring. From the bench Marcie can see all the birds who flock to the feeders: the cardinals in the bright coats, the chickadees who bob through the air, and the tufted titmice who wait on the branches. Sometimes the bluebird darts inside its special feeder for its treat of dried mealworms, and the downy woodpecker taps at the suet feeder. On the rough bark of the maple the white breasted nuthatch hops headfirst down the trunk, seeking insects. 

The world is filled with jubilant birdsong. Under the feeders the gray squirrels and chipmunks compete for fallen seeds. One morning Marcie was sitting so silently that the red fox who has a den by the fence came to the feeder for fallen seeds. It sensed Marcie’s presence, raised its head, and looked directly into her eyes before it turned and ran.

I think I must take my own mug of coffee and sit on the bench under the maple tree and open myself to the quiet morning.

Kristin Moyer

Written September 2013–posting November 2023

Still as stones, Calm as trees

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This afternoon I was busy weeding the wildlife habitat bed that I had planted in Bill’s memory the fall after he died. It is a bed along the driveway, an extensive area formerly filled with invasive honeysuckle shrubs and prickly natives, now planted with perennials and shrubs that provide food and shelter for birds, bees, and butterflies. There are shrubs of bottlebrush buckeye, viburnum, Carolina all spice, red bud trees, ferns, hyssop, goldenrod, muly grasses, and many more. This extensive bed has been overgrown with thick grasses and weeds this summer, and I made the mistake in the spring of broadcasting a meadow mixture of seeds into the center of the bed–a mistake because it is almost impossible to separate the grasses and weeds from the wildflowers. I am leaving that central part of the bed un-weeded and focusing on the lower end. I had cleared a large patch of ground when I paused for a moment to catch my breath. Then I saw the sleek gray bird, about the size of a small robin, hopping over the ground that I had cleared. It was digging in the fresh dirt with its beak, looking for insects, I think, and seemed to have no fear of me, though it must have noticed my presence. I slowly moved to my weeding stool and sat down. I sat as still as a statue, as still as a stone. The gnats swirled around my straw hat. I held my breath as the gray bird hopped closer and closer. It came as close as two feet from the spot where I was sitting. I could see its bright black eye, and the subtle markings of its gray feathers, slightly darker on its head. I later identified it as a cat bird. When it moved off, I quietly moved my stool.

What would life be like for us if we could spend some time–each day or each week– as still as stones, as calm as trees, observing the world around us and drinking in its beauty?

 

The Peace of Wild Things

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IMG_1916The Peace of Wild Things…

At the worship service last Saturday afternoon, my minister spoke about peace and read the poem “The Peace of Wild Things,” by Wendell Berry. It is one of my favorite poems. Some years ago I copied it out by hand onto a small card, and thumb tacked it to the wall of the cabin at Birch Hill. I sat in the darkening church,  and thought about the peace of wild things, and how they bring comfort to my spirit. I thought about the cabin and summers at the lake in northern Minnesota.

At Birch Hill I awaken in the early morning and listen to the loons calling to each other across the lake. I prod myself to get out of bed, dress, and go down the hill to the lake. Most mornings I am too lazy for pre-dawn expeditions, but I am leaving the next day; this is my last chance this summer.

There are mists on the lake, and no one else is stirring. Where are the motorboats and the fishermen? I am thankful that the only sound I hear is the call of loons, not motors. I grab a life jacket and a paddle for the canoe. I push the red canoe partly off the shore and then step into the warm water before swinging my legs over the side. It is easier when I am alone to paddle from the bow, especially if there is wind, but this morning the lake is flat calm. I paddle, turning the canoe toward the center of the lake. Two loons are there, doing their own fishing. They turn their sleek black heads toward me, unafraid, then dive. They swim a long distance under water and come up closer to the canoe. I sit quietly, paddle across my legs, watching them. They are such elegant birds, with their black spotted plumage and their black-streaked white breasts.

Slowly I begin to paddle away from the loons, moving closer to the shore, toward the west. Behind me the eastern sky is turning red. Too late I realize I am very close to another fisherman: the great blue heron standing in the shallows. He is standing so still in the morning mists– gray against gray– that I did not see him until this moment. He unfolds his wings and rises, like a dignified diplomat taking his exit. As he passes over the canoe, I hear his great wings beating. He passes overhead, his great neck curled, long legs straight behind him, moving to another fishing spot.

I paddle the canoe along the rocky shore, past two cabins that were not here when I was a little girl, and past the pink cottage, where smoke is coming from the chimney. Someone is up. My friends live here, but I slip quietly past, wanting only the quiet of the early morning, not a cup of coffee.

The shore is low and marshy now, and reeds line the shore. The canoe glides through the outermost reeds, the stems whispering as they slide past the red hull. Just ahead of me I see movement in the water, and three dark heads. They are not loons, perhaps muskrat?  I back paddle gently, lay the paddle across my knees again, and raise the binoculars to my eyes.

Three sleek brown heads are jutting out of the water, eyes staring at me, seemingly curious about me. They are river otter, and I have seen them only twice before over the years. I hear them squeaking but they do not sound alarmed. I remain perfectly still, filled with wonder. They swim closer to the canoe, then dive, reappearing in the area where I first spotted them, then swim further away. I do not follow, I do not wish to disturb them.

From the branch of a dead tree I hear the ca-rack call of the belted kingfisher. Across the lake, a motor boat’s engine starts up. The sun has risen and the mists have gone. I turn the canoe toward the cabin. I have been blessed once more.

Here is Wendell Berry’s poem:

When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound,

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water,

and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief.

I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light.

For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.