It had been weeks since I sat in nature. With the new job and the onslaught of holidays, I couldn’t recall the last time I went out and sat on the land and visited with the birds. No matter, I have my routine. I have places I’ve built deep connections with that I’ve returned to over and over again.
But, it wasn’t that simple even with the routine. As I walked out to the Sister Rocks along Lake Carmi, the never-ending conveyor belt in my mind of job tasks, family needs, meetings, and balls dropped all creaked to a slow roll but never stopped. I greeted the Sister Rocks and the trees, apologized for my long absence, and started to unpack my slow birding kit: folding stool, a fleecy blanket, hot tea, and my bins. I pulled out my notebook and colored pencils just in case I was inspired to write or draw.
I took up my binoculars and scanned the span of ice before me, searching for the edge. The ice groaned softly and popped every so often, and I got lost for a minute or two in the bubbles under the clear ice in front of me. There was a large raft of mergansers at the ice edge in the distance, and new birds flew in from time to time and wobbled out of the sky, landing on the water with the others. I settled in on my stool and pulled out the still-warm bagel I had packed to share breakfast with the Sister Rocks, placing my binoculars at my side.
I went through my routine of eating and sharing a bit of tea with the land, chatting up the chickadees that moved through. But I was restless; I was settled in my seat but not in my brain. That conveyor belt of “things to do” kept cranking up again. I tried my favorite breath practice, a cycle of You, Me, We that usually pulls me into a state of connection. I scanned the ducks once more, took a sip of tea, and tried again to still the conveyor belt.
I started to prickle with the heightened sense of being alone in the woods. Of worrying about being alone and a woman on the land. I cringed as I fixated on listening for someone coming up behind me. I was surprised by this discomfort, as I hadn’t felt it in quite some time. Then I got frustrated. It had been so long I was out of practice. Just like the quote that I often use in my slow birding classes from Wendell Berry, “The faster one goes, the more strain there is on the senses, the more they fail to take in, the more confusion they must tolerate or gloss over - and the longer it takes to bring the mind to a stop in the presence of anything.”
That was just it. I had been going so fast over the past couple of months with all the changes with the new job and the challenges of raising three kiddos entering their teen years. Really fast. As I sat there, it all came crashing in, and the conveyor belt cranked right back up again, and I thought, well if I can’t calm my mind after all this trying, let’s just get on with the day and take care of that shit on the conveyor belt.
So, I started to pack up. As I stood up and shook the fleece blanket from my lap, I heard her before I even saw her. She came from behind me, letting out a few plaintive quick notes, and then dropped down over my head into my view and strongly soared out over the ice, pulling up to land at the curve of the ice edge facing me just a few hundred yards out. Bold color blocks of white and dark, and sharp bright beak and talons.
And I laughed out loud. One of those knowing laughs or soft chuckles that come when you concede to a moment greater than yourself. And in that moment, l looked down and across the land where I was sitting, and I murmured a note of gratitude and thanks to the trees, the Sister Rocks, and the Bald Eagle. I paused in that moment of gratitude, because I had not looked up to some heavenly being to thank, rather down to the land and all that was around me. I felt that shift in thinking, in relationship.
Without hesitation, I unfolded my blanket once again and sat down. I stayed for another hour and watched as the Bald Eagle paced and called out at the ice edge. I sipped my tea and took in the winter air. In time, a second, smaller eagle flew in and joined her. And I watched as he walked back and forth behind her, finally coming to stand next to her at the ice edge. The conveyor belt had stopped. I was just there with them, the slow creaking of the ice and the chickadees dancing in the hemlocks overhead.
All it took was a reminder of the connection I had cultivated through my slow birding practice. A reminder that I was part of the landscape, part of it all. That the gifts will come because the relationship is there no matter how noisy the rest of my life gets. And here’s the other crazy thing. I almost instantly forgot about this whole set of moments because that damn conveyor belt cranked right up again the moment I got into my car. I forgot about it until my weekly Coffee Talk session with the Slow Birding Community members. As we wound up our session together sharing stories, someone’s comment triggered the memory of that day, and I retold the story for the first time to other people. I was deeply surprised I had forgotten that moment with the eagle only after a few days. And, I was deeply grateful for the human relationships I’ve cultivated through slow birding that foster and validate these connections with something greater than myself. Sharing stories with others is such a powerful practice.
So, I hope that you’ll pause this week, take note of whoever is outside your door or window, and remember you are part of something vast and wonderful and full of living gifts.
Wishing you all the best as we make our way into the new year!