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 few 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!

THE ONENESS OF WATER

IMAGE: BRITANNICA

              ナイヤガラ奈落に落ちて空に舞う

              Niagara Falls
              Falling into an abyss,

              Rising to heaven.
                  SOSUI - NOBUYUKI YUASA

I’ve just finished Abraham Verghese’s colossal novel, The Covenant of Water.
It was the title that originally took me in; water’s my favorite compound, and “covenant” suggests a sort of spiritual accord, which speaks to my relationship
with Nature.

When the author finally gets around to explaining the title—on page 706—he re-
fers back to water’s continuity throughout the story’s unfurling, connecting places, connecting people and families. And that’s got me thinking about my beloved water in a new light.

Of course I agree with Verghese’s take that water connects us. It does that most literally as a medium of transportation. But also, since it makes up about 60 percent of our bodies, water is something we all—every known form of life—depend on for our very existence. It makes us, if not blood relatives, at least akin by chemistry.

And one could say water unites us culturally. Its awesomeness—that contradiction of brute force and ethereal beauty—has inspired human beings, since our genesis, to share the fascination through literature, art and other creative expression.

IMAGE: WikiArt

PERPETUAL NOTION
We know that, aside from a few renegade hydrogen atoms escaping into the atmosphere, not one molecule of water is ever lost in the hydrologic cycle. The substance, from clouds to rain, to lakes and streams, to rivers, to the oceans and back again to clouds, never diminishes. It simply changes state.

So a molecule melting from this ice cube in my lemonade might be the very same molecule lapped up on the first known dinosaur’s, Nyasasaurus’s, tongue 243 million years ago.

Incredible! But there's another, albeit related, angle on the oneness of water.

    Never once during that odyssey would the boat
    not be completely immersed in H2O.

RACCOON WALKS INTO A (SAND)BAR
Besides that molecular perpetuity, water, at least in its liquid state, is also contigu-
ous. If one could follow a single drop of it from a melted snowflake on the sun-kissed shoulder of Everest down the mountain’s flank, I assert that there’s a direct, material connection between each of that drop’s 1.67 sextillion molecules* and every other molecule of flowing and pooling water on planet earth.

IMAGE: Lena River (Russia) delta – NASA

IMAGE: Taiyo

Imagine a nano-submarine, one considerably smaller than our water drop. A nano-submari- ner could steer his craft through that drop and
into all its sequential minglings into rivulets, rills and runnels. Then through brooks, creeks and rivers. Next, through ponds and lakes,
and possibly back to rivers. And finally into
the sea.

Never once during that odyssey would our little submarine not be completely immersed in H2O.

This means that, when a raccoon piddles in a river’s shallows here in Minnesota / USA, that critter becomes part of this indivisible body of water, its little stream literally linked into the universal stream. (Unfortunately, so does the chemical plant spewing its toxic waste into a drainage ditch.)

And, eventually, a molecule of either will show up in someone’s lemonade.

      What if we and all those other organisms,
      like water, are just a single, continuous thing?

A QUESTION TO PONDER
So what does all this mean? What it means to me is that, as much as we may think of all the various bodies of water clinging to Earth’s surface as separate entities, there’s really only one entity, one body of water.

Among the countless ways Nature informs our species, this one, too, poses a question to ponder: What if we think of the entirety of life on our precious planet as I’ve just described water? What if, despite our best efforts to differentiate ourselves one from another and from other forms of life, we and all those other organisms, like water, are just a single, continuous thing?

This argument of our essential oneness is nothing new. It’s already the stuff of religious doctrines, environmental treatises and even—relatively recently—physics.

But I’ve never heard it compared to this amazing, inseparable quality of water. It illustrates that, as with distant links in the water cycle, what happens to a destitute Gazan family whose “safe zone” was just bombed, and what happens to a baby girl just born into a life of peaceful privilege in the antipodal Tahiti are just as connec-
ted as the waters of the Mediterranean Sea are to those of the South Pacific.

IMAGE: Eyad Baba/AFP/Getty

IMAGE: Westend61 GmbH

          They’re humanity's one and only hope
          for survival.

NATURE’S TRUTH
This notion of the unity of life seems especially pertinent now, as once-egalitarian, world-aware governments worldwide choose to break off into their own little is-
lands of “populist” self-centeredness.

Including the United States, where around half of our voting population apparently feels quite threatened by the idea that the interests of all human beings might be connected. In fact, the politics of their “Trumpublican” party is wholeheartedly committed to division.

Values that have characterized the most successful cultures in history should never have been politicized. Striving for communication, cooperation, compassion and respect for our shared environment isn’t a judgement on folks who lack empathy or fear government overreach. Kindness and generosity aren’t some touchy-feely utopia dreamed up by a “liberal elite."

No, they’re a bit more authentic than that. They're humanity's one and only hope for survival.

So, let us not, dear God, abandon these, the moral lessons taught in nearly every spiritual persuasion just because they're espoused by our political rivals. Let us embrace Nature’s truth about our innate connections, and seek the oneness—the wisdom—of water.

                       “We need to strengthen the conviction 
                         that we are one single human family.”
                                POPE FRANCIS

* Using something called Avogadro's number, the number of molecules in a
   drop of water is calculated at 1.67 x 10⌃21—or 1.67 sextillion.
   SOURCE: ThoughtCo.com

RIVERINE PERFECTION – A Memorable Day On the St. Croix

I’ve been a river rat since I was nine. That’s when I fell in love with the beautiful St. Croix River, a Natural Scenic River forming the border between Wisconsin and Minnesota for most of its 169-mile length.

I can’t simply run down to the St. Croix and hop in our boat or canoe as I did most summer days as a kid. Nowadays it takes a bit more effort, including a 50-minute drive. But I still manage to tote my gear up there to my put-in spot at Franconia five or six times during the summer.
 
These river outings in my little 13-foot Mansfield/Stowe Osprey have always been good for my soul, a close connection with Nature and a cherished expression of
my independence. But today’s paddle is extraordinary, on as close to a perfect afternoon as I can remember.

          By about 6:30, the sun’s slipping on
          its golden-hour filter, bathing everything
          in honey light.

A SLOUGH OF NATURE
First, the weather’s ideal: upper 70s, sunny with scattered cotton-ball clouds and light breezes. The water level is a bit high. That means very little of the landing’s sand beach is exposed, making embarking and disembarking a bit challenging. And it usually means poor fishing.

But high water also means I can access my favorite slough, a flowing backwater that meanders through the woods on the Wisconsin side for several miles, and which becomes accessible only by portaging once the river drops to its usual summer level.

Going on a weekday, there are fewer people out; I see just a few small groups kayaking and a couple of polite power boats in the main channel.

As usual, I head out at about 2:30, since those five or six remaining hours of daylight are always magical, coaxing out all kinds of wildlife, from orioles to ospreys, muskrats to muskellunge. And by about 6:30, the sun’s slipping on its golden-hour filter, bathing everything in honey light.

BIRD TALK
So that’s the setting. Perfect enough, right? But today several other factors contribute to the magic.

One measure of my joy during my river paddles is how much wildlife I get to see. Today, here in the slough, the sense of oneness with Nature is just extraordinary. An eagle soars past at the treetops thirty yards away, a great blue heron flies close enough so I can hear the whisper of the wind on its wings.

Muskrats crisscross the stream, busily tending to their lodges. I don’t see deer this time, but I can hear them in the woods.

I’m far from a bird expert, but I love seeing them, listening to them, trying to imitate them. Today I hear unfamiliar birdsong coming from a dense grove of big trees along the bank. Sifting through memory, I rule out a few bird calls I know well, and come up with a guess: must be orioles. Now I haven’t spotted an oriole for years and have forgotten what they sound like.

PHOTO: Tony Castro

I start replying, and within a minute a dart of orange emerges from the shadows, coming toward me…and then two…and finally a couple more pipe in from deeper in the woods. What a privilege not just to see these spectacular birds, but to communicate with them (saying who knows what)!

Later, I try for another conversation. Nearly always on these evening paddles, I start hearing barred owls’ evocative eight-note incantation in the woods about an hour before dark; most often there are two or more trading calls.

This evening, emboldened by my success with the orioles, I try reaching out to any barred owls who might be within earshot. It’s not perfect, but my low-pitched coo-like whistles do the trick. One of them replies…and then another. I have chills.



SEVEN UP
I enjoy fishing. I like catching too, but that’s not essential to the mystical connection with Nature fishing evokes. Most days on the St. Croix the effects of current and wind make bait casting from a canoe quite challenging; I get one, maybe two, quick casts before I’m either turned completely around or barreling toward the rocky shore.

Today, though, the light breeze and moderate current are in near-perfect balance, managing to hold me in place or even move me gradually upstream—a perfect pace for covering a new spot along the shore with each cast.

        This spiny, mauve, shark-skinned beauty
        is thought to have appeared in the biota
        some 100 million years ago.

Usually, my fishing time on the river is punctuated with little, under-my-breath curses when I’m struggling with stronger winds or when my little Mepps Spinner snags on a stone or log, or, worse, catches an overhanging tree limb. Today, incredibly, I do all the usual target practice on submerged structure all afternoon, and without a single snag.

Now here’s the most amazing part. My average day fishing on the St. Croix might produce a few small fish, usually pike or smallmouth bass. Today, despite the high water, I catch seven fish, each a different species. Exactly one each of sunfish, crappie, yellow perch, rock bass, smallie, northern pike and sturgeon. Do you know how extraordinary that is?

Of those, the perch is one I seldom see on the river. (I worry that, since they love aquatic weeds, maybe that means the St. Croix’s waters are warming.)

But the most exotic by far is the sturgeon. This spiny, mauve, shark-skinned beauty is like a living fossil, thought to have appeared in the biota some 100 million years ago. Catching one—even a 20-inch youngster like this—always leaves me in awe. 

BETTER THAN DEET
Finally, I can’t recount a summer evening on the St. Croix without mentioning our Minnesota “state bird,” the mosquito. We’ve had plenty of rain lately and temperatures are ideal for mosquito procreation. And, with little wind, I’d expected to be mobbed by the little assassins.

VIDEO: LaiTimes

But not today. Whatever this magical spell that seems to envelop me, it’s working better than 100 percent DEET. Nearly all afternoon I’m surrounded with a squadron of dapper dragonflies using me as bait and gobbling up the skeeters before they can land. I ask you, is that not a perfect example of synergy?  

          I allowed myself the lightness of being
          that allows wonder.

DISTILLED SPIRITS
Serendipity is, by definition, elusive, impossible to replicate. We’d love, wouldn’t we, to be able to catch it, bottle it and open it another time. Alas, we can’t make it happen.

Like so many of Nature’s small wonders, it’s not all about what you actually see or do or even what happens to you. A big part of serendipity is about how and where your spirit is when you’re there. As I'm wont to say in these jottings, you see pretty much what you expect to see.

The spirits of some folks I know are like magnets for wonder. They seem always to be in a place that’s wide open to curiosity and awe…and, yes, serendipity. For me, it can be a little harder. Too often I get stuck in my routines; I impose limits on myself when I needn’t; I’m too serious.

So today, this magical, near-perfect day on the St. Croix River, only happened because Nature and I happened to be on the same page. My worries were few; my filters were turned off; my senses were tuned in; and I allowed myself the lightness of being that allows wonder.

HOWLIN’ HARMONY – Sylvia Sings With Coyotes

So Sally and I are just down the block, sitting on our favorite bench along East River Parkway. Our mini-schnauzer, Sylvia, is sitting in Sally’s lap, her keen senses piqued by every movement, sound and smell within a hundred yards. Walkers, bikers, squirrels, a few cars.

Then the relative quiet is pierced by the wail of sirens, and Sylvia’s ears perk up. The emergency vehicles are headed our way, and sure enough we spot a couple of fire trucks tearing down the street right toward us.

Sylvie’s getting agitated now, and when they’re about a block away, she points her nose toward the sky, purses her lips and starts belting out her demure version of a full-throated, primal wolf howl.  

I cover my ears as the trucks scream past and Sylvie keeps howling for another
ten seconds.

As the sirens fade into the distance, Silvia catches her breath, and a new sound emerges from the din. Right across the parkway, somewhere on the steep, wooded slope down to the Mississippi—and no more than 50 yards away—a pack of coyotes is still performing their unique, siren-provoked medley of howls and high-pitched barking. And it’s not just one or two; it sounds like the whole, extended family.

       It is a profound reminder of the timeless
       connection between all creatures.

A CHORUS OF COMMUNION
Coyotes may be the most populous, yet reclusive, wild animal in the U.S. It’s hard to believe how many there are, even right here in the city.* And when you run into one face to face—as I have occasionally—blocking your way on the foot path, or hear them sounding off en masse as we just did, it touches a nerve.

That’s because few people, especially those of us who live in the city, ever come face to face with a wild, free carnivore. The rare privilege of doing so is essential to our understanding that the natural world does not—or at least should not—revolve entirely around homo sapiens.

Our arresting encounter today is a profound reminder of the timeless connection between all creatures— in fact, the oneness of…everything.

One is seldom moved to contemplate the scope of such awareness. But this communing between our little dog and those coyotes, the stirring consonance of their common ancestry, brings it home for me as few experiences have.

* There are significant populations of coyotes (canis latrans) in every U.S. state except Hawaii. The U.S. total has been estimated at between 3,000,000 and 5,000,000.

A BREATH’S BLESSING – My Intimate Encounter With a Dying Baby Squirrel

A heartbreaking little drama played out this afternoon while I was walking along the beautiful, peaceful trail that flanks the Mississippi River just below our house.

Right in the middle of the asphalt path, right where people walk and ride bikes, lay a little pink lump not much bigger than my thumb. As I got closer I saw that it was a baby squirrel. It must have been just days old, since its eyes looked as if they’d not yet opened. 

I saw no sign of injury, but its bare skin looked to be a bit sunburned. My first thought was, the poor thing, it might well have succumbed to the heat of that searing pavement.

And then it moved. At first it was barely noticeable, but its precious little feet and tail were definitely moving. Oh, my God, I thought, it’s still alive!

     I prayed somehow my intervention, my touch,
     might be a vehicle for Creation’s mercy.

A shot of adrenaline coursed through me as my thoughts turned from finding a decent resting place for the kit, to actually saving its life. First, I had to get it out of the sun and see if it would take some water.

I listened for any sound of an agitated squirrel parent from the adjacent woods. (I didn’t want to be one of those well-meaning folks who might intervene when it’s not necessary.) Not a peep.

So I wrapped the little thing in a grape leaf and hurried down to the river’s edge. As I did so, I prayed somehow my intervention, my touch, might be a vehicle for Creation’s mercy. Please, please let it live!

Dipping a small stick in the river, I was able to transfer a few drops of water to the tiny animal’s partially open mouth. But there was no reaction.

In fact, now there was no more movement at all. The sweet little creature had died in my hand. I stroked its soft, wrinkled side, hoping it might respond.

I sat down on a log and wept, fully present with that precious departed soul. I was grateful to have made its acquaintance, and hoped I’d offered some small recognition of its life.

There was just one thing left to do. I made a sheltered little bower on the forest floor and lay the sweet baby to rest, its last fleeting breaths having blessed me in ways I’ll not soon forget.

BREATHING AS ONE – A Meditation Greenhorn’s Epiphany

Ages ago Sally and I took a community-ed meditation class. About all I remember is something our instructor called a “cleansing breath.” And that I enjoyed some of his guided meditations.

So I’m far from a sophisticated meditator, but with that modest intro I’ve devised my own technique which works just fine. It helps me relax and keep things in perspective during these nightmarish times.

 

I usually start a session by watching the “shape” of my breathing—visualizing it not as two distinct movements—in, stop, out, stop—but as one continuous, elliptical cycle.

Once that rhythm is set I picture the inhalations bringing in good stuff, like positive energy, light, abundance, healing… and the exhalations expelling all the bad stuff: negativity, darkness, scarcity and illness/pain. It’s kind of like a pump…or better a conveyor belt; you grab things you want as it winds in, and dump your trash on it as it heads back out.

     All time, past and future, has swirled together
     into this little present-moment eddy.

A PRESENT-MOMENT EDDY
During this morning’s meditation I experienced something remarkable. I’d just gotten my breathing down when, suddenly, the space it occupied grew from arm’s-length scale to cosmic.

One second, I’m thinking of myself and my own respiration; the next, I have this profound sense that somehow my breath is commingling with other breaths, those of loved ones and ancestors, strangers on the other side of the world, and anyone who’s ever entered this sublime, out-of-body dimension.

I drift off magically through space and time, feeling deeply that everything under creation is connected, in me and of me. And that all time, past and future, has swirled together into this little present-moment eddy.

It’s not that I’ve never had this sense before, but usually it’s been more a fleeting glimpse, not there long enough to make the leap from the  intellectual to the emotional. This time it does though; it feels so powerful, so very real.

Curiously, as my soul soars like this, I’ve never felt more grounded, more centered.

A SILVER LINING
One of my fondest wishes during the pandemic and the other convulsions wracking our poor planet has been that something good will come of it all. Something transformational about how we treat each other and our precious planet.

If it were nothing else, I’d settle for a very deep, broad, cross-cultural sense that we’re all—we and all of Nature’s miracles—connected as one. And a contagion of empathy.

I think that connection is what I experienced this morning. I hope I can let it percolate through me, flavoring not just my rarefied reveries, but all my comings and goings.

And I pray it might find the light of day, too, in you and in everyone, everywhere…and soon.

FAWN AND GAMES – An Extraordinary Nature Connection

On a scale of one to ten, yesterday on the beautiful #StCroixRiver was an eleven. One reason, experiencing another of my occasional transcendent connections with animals—this time with this precious fawn.

I was paddling silently up a narrow slough (I’ve learned to do it without so much as the sound of water dripping off of my paddle.) when I felt a presence. I looked up and there was this face peering at me from the grassy bank no more than 30 yards away.

My heart raced; my spirit calmed. I voiced a silent reassurance: Oh, you beautiful little spirit. Please know that I adore you, that I would never harm you. Please just let me behold you.

At first, the animal did what wild animals should do; it turned and leapt up the steep slope. Oh well, I thought, it will warn its mother of this odd floating thing with eyes it had seen in the water, and they will stay away.

My soliloquy turned from welcome to a farewell, a blessing: May the deer flies and ticks leave you alone; may you find lots of leafy twigs and plump acorns to eat; may you find a mate and live a good, long deer life.

    Had my presence turned this creature just a 
    little tame? Or had I turned just a little wild?

Suddenly, the tall grass parted and there was the fawn again, edging tentatively back down the bank. I couldn’t believe how close it came. Somehow, I told myself, it must have sensed my psychic efforts to communicate.

For several minutes it grazed calmly, looking up at me now and then without concern.

By now, I’d reached down slowly for my camera. As I raised it to my eye, the animal bolted once again. But this time, it dashed just ten yards along the bank, stopped and dashed right back again. It stood there, mouth open as if about to say something. I swear the little thing was posing for me.

Like a puppy eager to play, it repeated the little game several times. Finally, perhaps summoned by its mother, the fawn turned, bounded up the bank and was gone.

And so was I. The beauty of the moment had left me breathless. I just sat there, immersed in the wonder of it, in gratitude for this gift of being able, now and then, to connect this way with such sweet, utterly enchanting fellow beings.

As I basked in it all, I asked myself what had just happened. Had my presence at all changed this creature—perhaps turning it just a little tame? A little too tame? Or had I turned just a little wild?

LIFE AND LIMB – The Healing Embrace of a Cottonwood

Today I visited a dear old friend — one with many limbs and five trunks.

Years ago, during my recovery from neck surgery, I would take tentative walks around my Saint Anthony Park (St. Paul) neighborhood. Doctors orders.

Besides the therapeutic benefits of just walking, I found many healing influences on those outings, especially around the St. Paul campus of the University of Minnesota—the so-called ag campus. Among them, a certain cottonwood tree which, at first glance, appeared unremarkable.

        I would stand in that living enclosure...
        and feel blessed.

But as I walked past it, it spoke to me. Like so many cottonwoods, this one comprised multiple, distinct trunks. In this case, five of them arranged in a neat circle, each separated from the next by just a few inches of turf, leaving about a four-square-foot patch of ground in the middle.

I would step into that living enclosure, lean back against one of the massive members, and feel utterly enveloped in a force—a spirit—that made me feel blessed. I’m convinced that tree helped me heal.

For years after that lonely, painful period, I would stop every time I passed that tree, step inside, profess my gratitude and refresh my soul as I did that first time.

MINI DISASTER 
Flash forward to this morning. Our sweet little miniature schnauzer, Sylvia, remained in the throes of a nasty infection or poisoning of some sort. She’d been throwing up every few minutes for 36 hours with no end in sight. Yesterday I’d taken her to the University of Minnesota Veterinary Clinic’s emergency room to see if we could find out what was going on.

Sally and I have been consumed with worry about her. She’s so little, so helpless, so precious. Neither of us knows what we’d do if anything happened to our sweet little girl. Since Sally’s had to work these past two days, much of the burden of caring for her has fallen on me. I’m glad I'm able to do it, but it’s been an incredibly stressful and emotional time for me.

  I suggest the lack for them may lie not with the 
  trees’ capacity for communication but their own.

This morning, seeing no improvement in Sylvia, our concern grew still more acute. So she and I paid a second visit to the ER, where they did more tests and gave her some sub-cutaneous fluids and an anti-nausea injection. It seemed to help right away. Guardedly, I felt the first ripples of relief.

A FLAKY NOTION

As we’re driving home I notice we’re passing the block where that old cottonwood used to live. I look to my left and there it is. I pull over, put my flashers on, and walk over to it as if greeting a dear old friend. Then I notice. One of its trunks is gone, apparently the victim of thunderstorm winds. 

Somehow I sense we understand each other's vulnerability. Once again, I step into that knowing embrace. And again I feel its acknowledgement, its grace, undiminished despite the amputation.

                      

I look up at the wrinkled fingers of the enormous hand that's holding me. A deep breath upends the anxiety that's had its foot on my chest the past two days. All at once a wave of emotions crests over me: relief that sweet Sylvia’s responding to treatment; the joy of having this precious creature in my life; and gratitude for the deep blessing Nature bestows on all who will let it.

A tree that understands and communicates? I know some may find that pretty flaky. But I suggest the lack for them may lie not with the trees’ capacity for communication but their own.

ARTICLE ON TREES AS SENTIENT BEINGS

UPDATE: A day later, as I finish this reflection, Sylvia’s still not out of the woods. The anti-emetic is keeping her from vomiting, but this morning just before she was due for her second dose, she was again retching. We can only hope and pray the vet’s best guess—that it’s a viral infection—is right, and that it will soon give up the ghost.
Meanwhile, I may just go back for another session of my arboreal anti-anxiety treatment.
SECOND UPDATE: It's now a week since Sylvia showed the first symptoms of her illness. And I'm delighted to report that she's back to her wonderful, normal self. Thanks to all for your good wishes for her!

INTERSECTIONS – Where Intention and Magic Meet

As I continue exploring my inner and outer worlds for glimpses of what’s real, important and true, it dawns on me how much of significance in my life occurs at its intersections.

I see intersections as those times, places, events or states of mind at which whatever personal and/or spiritual energy we manifest coincides with that of other people or that of the Cosmos. This can and does happen accidentally, but it also happens deliberately.

Without getting all “new agey” on you, I do believe that many good things happen accidentally, but that we can cultivate this karma—if only we could stop trying so hard to make what we want happen...and simply let it happen.

James Redfield, author of the groundbreaking 1993 novel, The Celestine Prophecy, says it quite well:

"For centuries, religious scriptures, poems, and philosophies have pointed to a latent power of mind within all of us that mysteriously helps to affect what occurs in the future. It has been called faith power, positive thinking, and the power of prayer. We are now taking this power seriously enough to bring a fuller knowledge of it into public awareness. We are finding that (it) is a field of intention, which moves out from us and can be extended and strengthened, especially when we connect with others in a common vision."

OPEN HEARTS, OPEN DOORS
Redfield refers to coincidence as the opening of doors. He says that when we are at our best—operating from our most secure, creative, aware inner cores—we give off a sort of cosmic “aura” of energy that everyone and every thing responds to, and that this causes those doors of opportunity to open sponta- neously. For example, he describes how often, while searching for something—an idea, an inspiration or something more tangible like an ally or even just some help—that very gift has miraculously presented itself to him.

Another brilliant proponent of tapping the interconnectivity of the Universe for what we want and need is the great comic actor Jim Carrey. Carrey feels each of us creates our own universe, one in which faith is infinitely more powerful than hope.

He describes that faith brilliantly in a college graduation address he delivered a few years ago. Here's a link to some excerpts:  Maharishi University Speech 

     You sincerely put what you want out there
     for the Universe to digest, and it conspires
     with your own best efforts to make it happen.

PRACTICALLY TRANSCENDENTAL
So, are these just the Utopian ramblings of an eccentric man with the luxury of being able to ponder the metaphysical? Jim Carrey—and I, for that matter—are indeed so lucky. But to dismiss as idle whimsy our shared belief that celestial providence aligns many of the intersections in our lives is simply a denial of how things really work.

In our business and professional lives, success is most certainly all about inter- sections, about recognizing opening doors. Any successful enterprise has to think long and hard about where its values and interests will intersect with those of their constituent/customers—both at the organizational level and personally. The best of them constantly look to distinguish themselves by anticipating the future and being first to step through doorways that lead there.

And in personal relationships, even within the bonds of family life, being aware and responsive to some degree of serendipity is not only practical, it makes us kinder, gentler people, and the world a better place. You sincerely put what you want out there for the Universe to digest, and it conspires with your own best efforts to make it happen.

Many of the world’s most successful, inspirational people follow this mantra whether they realize it or not. Sure, a few fat-cat business moguls may eschew the Redfield or Carrey cosmic, touchy-feely interpretation, but you can bet they do believe in the power of having a vision and never letting go. Same thing.

       If one should happen to summon some
       players and powers from beyond the veil
       of earthly "reality," so much the better.

THIN SPOTS
The 90-something mother of my friend, Charlie, posthumously, in her self-written memorial service, noted her belief that human beings—at least those of us open to the possibility—regularly encounter “thin spots” in the self-made barrier between our largely mundane daily busy-ness and other, more transcendental realities.

As a minister, Molly felt it was her job to encourage people’s awareness of those convergences, because, among other reasons, they are “good places to find God.”

Have you ever experienced one of those thin spots in your life? A place where different dimensions of reality inexplicably merge? Did you have any sense of being in the presence of your higher power?

Whatever our own hopes and aspirations, each of us should be in the business of helping other people also achieve theirs. I suggest that, if we keep our eyes and hearts open for opportunities to do this, the opening doors, the thin spots—those illuminating not only others’ dreams, but our own—are revealed.

And if, along the way, one should happen to summon some players and powers from beyond the veil of earthly "reality," so much the better.

“So many of us choose our path out of fear disguised as practicality. What we really want seems impossibly out of reach so we never dare to ask the universe for it. I’m the proof that you can ask the universe for it.” ~ JIM CARREY

WONDERS GREAT AND SMALL – A Thanksgiving Blessing

Here's a Thanksgiving blessing I'd like to share. I happen to pray to God, but if your reverence for the incredible is directed to a force of a different name, feel free to plug it in as you like.

 Oh God, you appear to all of us in different ways. Ways so vast and powerful that we cannot grasp them, so minute that we fail to notice them. Lord, hear our thoughts and prayers of thanksgiving and help each of us be more fully aware of your blessings large and small:

Thank you for the vast expanse, the limitless wonder, of your creation,

And for the cold, wet, honeycomb pattern of the skin on a dog’s nose.

Thank you for Nature’s great ebbs and flows—her awesome power;
her transcendent beauty; her inexorable rhythms,

And for our lover’s heartbeat.

Thank you for the fascinating family of man—in all its colors, shades and textures—and the values and aspirations we share.

Thank you too for our family—those sitting at this table and those present in our hearts.

Thank you for the good, the pure, the true that resides at the core
of every human being,

And the chance to share a smile and a kind word with a stranger.

Thank you for your infinite bounty—the abundance with which you
nourish us in body, mind and spirit.

And thank you for this glorious meal we’re about to share.

Thank you for your promise of eternity,

And for this moment—this one...precious...moment of life.

Amen