THERE YOU ARE! – Making Eye Contact With Nature

Last week, I started writing a post about the wonders of making eye contact with Nature. Specifically, about a remarkable interaction I’d had with two beavers while I was canoeing a backwater of the beautiful St. Croix River. I’d been struck by their sustained gaze as they swam, as if on a 30-foot tether, in a perfect arc around me.

This evening, while still working on that piece, I took a break and went out to sit on our deck with our sweet little mini-schnauzer, Sylvia…and a margarita. And over the next twenty minutes, a little drama played out that convinced me those beavers could no longer be my lead. 

             It’s hard to discern emotion in 
             eyes half the size of apple seeds.

PHOTO: Wikimedia Commons

GOT NECTAR?
This whole summer, Sally and I have seen very little of our ruby-throated hummingbirds. In fact, we’d thought there was just one—a female. But then, just a couple weeks ago, a tiny newcomer shows up at the feeder. (We still haven’t seen Papa.) And, sadly, whenever either Sally or I have been out there on the deck both mom and baby have made themselves scarce.

As the inevitable day of their migration south approaches, we’re treasuring every sighting of these precious little beings, albeit through the window.

So, here I am, sitting on the deck. I’ve cranked open our big red umbrella, Sylvie’s lying in my lap, and a little chill music is playing. We’re right behind the curtain of purple petunias and white bacopa trailing from our railing boxes. Just on the other side, where I can’t see it, is our hummingbird feeder—filled with nectar I refreshed just this morning.

All of a sudden I catch that inimitable flitting-then-hovering hummer motion out of the corner of my eye. One must have landed at the feeder. 

Then, suddenly, just between the balusters of the deck railing, no more than three feet from us, here’s the mama, hovering, looking right at us. She’s so close I can hear her hum.

PHOTO: alandrapal / The Lens Flare

First, she suspends in front of Sylvie’s nose for a few seconds; then she flits up to my level and stares right into my eyes. Then, as if that weren’t enchanting enough, the baby appears and, while mom backs off, does the same.

It’s hard to discern intent or emotion in eyes half the size of apple seeds, but I believe it’s there. Maybe it’s gratitude—like “Hey, thanks for the yummy sugar water”—but you know, I’ll settle for curiosity just slightly eclipsing caution. In any case, I’m absolutely smitten.

       I’m locked eye-to-eye with a 40-ton whale!

A FLUKE OF NATURE?
Moving from one end of the critter-size spectrum to the other, I’ve had this very same transcendent experience with a whale. (An adult female gray whale weighs roughly 12,000,000 times more than that hummingbird that locked eyes with me on the deck.)

Sally and I had sailed from San Diego down the Pacific coast toward Cabo San Lucas and the Sea of Cortez aboard the 95-foot natural history cruise boat, the Searcher. Along the way, we stopped to spend a couple of days in Laguna San Ignacio, where scores of Pacific gray whale cows tend and teach their calves for a while each spring. 

There, in the wild, of their own accord—and for no tangible reward—50-foot Pacific gray whale cows swim under their 15- to 20-foot calves, gently lifting and nudging them toward our little ten-person rowboats and our outstretched hands. The babies seem to love the attention, gently bumping the boat and even opening their mouths so we can scratch their baleen (the keratin filters they use to strain krill and other food from the water).

After presenting her calf to me, one mama whale backs off a few yards where she raises her head out of the water and watches me warily. That’s right, I’m locked eye-to-eye with a 40-ton whale!

I remember so vividly the enormity, the depth…the magic of that experience. And hoping that whatever that whale saw in my eyes reciprocated the respect and trust I was reading in hers.

           Do wild animals immediately spot 
           these two tiny blue orbs in my face?

SEEING GENEROUSLY

Between those two extremes of animal size, I’ve had numerous other close encounters with the eyes of wild creatures: eagles, deer, coyotes, muskrats, herons, and even fish. Just this week, it was those beavers circling my canoe, their eyes fixed on mine.

What’s going through animals’ heads as they lock stares with me? Do they recognize me as another animal? And how do they know? Is it the eyes? Do wild animals immediately spot these two tiny blue orbs in my face? Can they read other creatures’ eyes anywhere near as well as domestic dogs have learned to read ours? 

I wonder if these and other critters might exemplify a concept I’ve often written about in these pages: seeing generously. The beneficence would be my eyes conveying peace, understanding, perhaps some form of love. Then, if that vibe somehow allows an animal to experience those same sensibilities, that means the gift’s been received. 

Might this explain why these creatures I commune with don’t see me as a threat?

ILLUSTRATION: Thomas Wolter, Pixabay

IS IT SPIRITUAL?
Our eyes—human eyes—have been celebrated in literature and film as windows to our souls. Perhaps wild animals, too, know how to look into that window. After all, we know they possess sensory faculties we humans—at least those of us no longer living in the wild—have long ago lost to evolution.

Whatever that reading, do you think it’s based on merely an exchange of information, or might there be more to the transaction? Might my connection with these, my fellow creatures, exceed the reach of the conventional senses and border on the spiritual? 

I think it does, and it’s rare indeed. 

It’s only when both the critter and the human decide—or, perhaps more accurately, allow themselves—to see the other’s aura that the magical connection is made. Today that happened for me with those little hummingbirds.

What they see in my eyes—I hope—most certainly is a kind of love.

OR IS IT LOVE?
One of the high points of any day for me is sustained eye contact with our dog. Sweet little Sylvia nestles in the furrow between my left thigh and the arm of my Lazy Boy. Once in a while she’ll turn her head up toward me and just stare into my eyes. It’s magical. 

Of course, I can’t tell you exactly what Sylvie sees in my eyes, but I know what I see in hers. She shows me a range of emotions: fear, excitement, shame. But the expression that touches my heart most profoundly is hard to describe. I guess it’s just pure, sweet love. 

With my inter-species encounters in Nature, I can’t say I read such love in the eyes of wild animals. That's as it should be, I suppose. I do see caution, naturally. And curiosity. Occasionally playfulness. But what they see in my eyes—at least I hope—most certainly is a kind of love. 

SEEING THE BEING
I’ve experienced the enchantment of eye contact with many creatures. In fact, I occasionally offer the same gift of seeing generously to other, inanimate faces of Nature, like trees…or even still-more-inscrutable ones like rocks and clouds. 

It’s not that I pretend these faces have eyes, but I do believe they have being. And the fact that we share that condition makes us kin. Makes them, I believe, worthy of my seeing.

How do you experience the wonder of eye contact with Nature? Is there one animal, one occasion in which you've felt the most profound connection? Do you see even inanimate elements of Nature with that same generosity of spirit? We’d love to hear about it in the comments!