Bird On A Window

The sky. It is not the ceiling to the earth, not here at least. Here there is an infinite sky. It is the earth that is finite. It is the earth that is the floor. And on this snow-encrusted patch of it, we are snug inside our adobe house, watching the birds at the bird feeder. The snow is starting to melt on the road because it got up to 40 degrees today. The mile and a half of dirt road between here and the pavement is mudpie wet and the cars skid around as if they were driving on ice.
This is not the spring melt. It is just a little warm up that cools right off again and then warms again, over and again, if this is a typical winter for Northern New Mexico.
As I was sitting and speculating on the mountain, whether if I stared at it long enough, I would be able to tell where the gold mine is, I heard a thud on the window. I went outside to check, as this window is in a wall of clear windows in the solar room of the house. Indeed, one of the small birds had flown into the glass and after examining the bushes below the windows, found the poor little thing, dazed and motionless. I gently picked it up and took then moved my finger around to see if it could move its neck. It looked to the right a little and then the left a little. So I placed it on the patio chair and came inside to quickly google "bird flew into window".
Immediately I had advice so I followed it. This is what I did. I found a nice box, actually a box from a case of wine. I put paper towels in the bottom and a couple of clean cotton rags. Then placed the little creature, who was sitting dazed in the chair where I left her, (No pink markings so I am assuming she is a she)into the box, shut the lid, put a dark towel over the top to keep it dark inside, and placed the box inside where the sun would warm it.
In twenty minutes or so, there was a bit of fluttering and hopping inside the box, so I carried it outside and opened it. Out she flew. John and I applauded happily.
The advice I found said that if she was just in shock, this is exactly what would be likely to happen. If the injuries were severe, she would probably die. But she lived! She flew! And I like to think that she was among the crowd that gathered in celebration at the feeder shortly thereafter.
How very soft and light she was. I carried her so gently and talked to her in a soft voice. Her tiny little feet might have perched on a pencil. It was a very precious and tender few moments and I feel grateful to have had the honor.

I spent a good part of the morning trying to identify the small birds who are so enthusiastically enjoying our bird feeder. They also really enjoy the bread crumbs and raisins that are spread out along the top of the courtyard wall. I found one bird photo that looked right, called a pink bunting, but then saw that they reside in Tibet. They are the most similar. Then others, called rose finches or scarlet rose finches, that are close but seem to have too much red on them. The brightly colored ones here are really not that bright, but a very nice pinkish red on the breast and head anyway.

The females and young males are brown/grey/tan colors. That is pretty typical of the animal kingdom. It is interesting that humans at this stage of the game, go in the opposite direction and it is generally the males who are more standard in hairstyle and attire. And we females are the ones who are generally more fancified, with nail polish and makeup and hair colors--all of these our fancy feathers and finery. This may just be our era, however.

Some men in the past wore some pretty outrageous finery. I am reminded of the paintings of native warriors with the headdresses and paint. Then there were the Romans and Greeks with their rather lavish hair styles and their togas and fancy helmets. Check this one out! (I can't help wondering when I see this: Whatever were they thinking?) And then there are the Parlimentary wigs and outfits which are also pretty dramatic.

But in either men or women, these are things we put on our bodies, but not our natural differences in coloring, like say if our men had bright blue heads, or green and pink faces, or great striped bodies. Or great manes of golden fur surrounding their heads and shoulders.

Compared to much of the animal kingdom, especially the birds, I think our males got the short end of things.

As for women, we are happy with the things we can do, such as accessorize, wax, bleach, dye, and wear a much more extensive variety of color and pattern in our clothing. Here is Carmen Miranda in all her glory. She may just be the champion accessorizer.

Goodness but this is a wander! From birds to hats to ladies who wear bowls of fruit on their heads. This is no doubt not a good sign. From watching birds to wierd trips into the extremes of accessorizing.

But the birds are still there. They are still eating seeds and have the feeder nearly empty. I suspect they are not thinking about much if anything. It is still cold outside. These birds are taking care of business by making sure they can generate enough body heat to stay alive another day. The sun is still shining through the windows here beside me.

Perhaps this is just a prayer about staying present. The day goes fast. There are only so many of them alloted to each of us. How much of a day do I really inhabit?

I return to the mountain, which is now a sprawling sillouette across the southwestern skyline. In front of it is the snow covered ridge spattered with junipers. Nearer to me is the adobe wall which is nearly cleaned off again by the little rose finches. It surrounds the burnished red slate courtyard with just a little bit of snow banked up against the far wall where the sun cannot reach. The wind is blowing the branches a little and the birds sit on the bare branches, their feathers all fluffed up like small red and brown puff balls, to stay warm.

The last days of 2008. 2008 = 10. 2009 = 11. Will that mean a new beginning?

No crows yet, but a bunch of other birds. Actually two kinds, small ones and bigger ones. Apparently we need a bird book now, because we don't recognize either of the two types. I have spread more crumbs on the courtyard wall because yesterday's crumbs are gone but it is the littler birds that are eating them. These birds are the shape of buntings, but not as colorful.

Why know the name? Isn't it enough to just watch them? It is, I think, a primal need to name things.

Right there in the beginning of the Bible, Adam is told to go and name all the animals. I wonder what he called them then? How many words did he have, anyway? And what did the words mean? This is a brand new person, this Adam. How much talking has he actually done? This seems like a really big task for anyone, but especially a brand new someone. And how many animals were there?

Why didn't God just tell Adam what their names were? Like a sort of garden/jungle tour. God driving the jeep with a little speaker thing, "and on your left are the zebras, to your right the lions"... No, God told Adam this was Adam's job.

Adam must have needed that job in order for him to learn to differentiate for himself. And in that case, perhaps we all repeat this naming process in each of our lives. My precious grandson, Dylan, is the most recent in our family to begin this job all over again. Each word is learned in conjunction with an image which he is cataloging in his brain storehouse.

Nouns come first. Name the animals. Name the people. (Adam only had one other person so that wasn't a really big job and I think maybe God named her.) Name the food. Name the surroundings, inside and out. Mama, Dada, doggy, chair, table, tree, rain.

It is the beginning of clarifying his environment, then having some control over it. Mama says, "Are you hungry?" Yes." "Would you like a sandwich?" "No, pasta."

After a stroke, many people acquire aphasia, an inability to process language. It is said not to be indicative of intelligence but is a result of damage to the part of the brain that contains and interprets the sounds that we know as words.

One difference between Dylan and a person with aphasia, is that he is just beginning to fill up his "word bank". It is fairly empty, but not broken. A person with aphasia has injury to that part of the brain and may or may not, regain some functioning.

Today, the word "mountain" today has a specific meaning for me. I mean my mountain, or the small range of mountains, that I see out the window of this room. I now know that they are the Ortiz mountains. The highway NM14 runs through those mountains, going through the town of Madrid on the way down to I-40 which runs west into Albuquerque. There was a lot of turquoise, silver and even gold mined out of those mountains. I am learning more words about this mountain. Before we leave this beautiful paradise, I may know a lot more words about this mountain, this juniper country, these birds and this sky.

Will these words get in the way or help the full experience of this land and its inhabitants? Two nights ago we were awakened by the sound of a very enthusiastic bunch of coyotes, howling and barking and yipping like mad. We said, "Coyotes."

First there is perceiving. Then interpretation. My prayer is not to put those in the wrong order so that the perception has to fit the name. Let the name fit the perception. Let me see what is there, hear what is there. Let the stillness give the name.

The Song

Listening to the Eagles, feeling the sun pouring through the windows along the courtyard, and thinking about a lot of things at the same time. Listening to the Eagles is a ready way to bring back a hundred worlds of memories and moments. It's funny but I cannot always remember the exact thing, but I remember feelings mostly. And love to sing along with them.

Looking back. The years of being a teenager then a young adult. Then a wife and mother, then a single mother. Then a wife again and a new addition by way of another baby boy. Then a single mother. Then a wife again. Then a widow. Then a wife again. Amazing, I think.

All of these lives in just me. Today I am married to my friend from my youth, my John. He is still my friend. We talk and laugh and figure out things and love our children together and love one another. We are peaceful.

We attended the little church in Cerrillos again today. The Church of St. Joseph. The Feast of the Holy Family today. The choir stands up in the rear balcony and sings some songs in English and some in Spanish. Some guy with nice grey pony tail plays the twelve string guitar. John and I both think the hymns in Spanish are prettier. But today there were some of the traditional Christmas carols that were fun to sing. They are all in a high key so it is a little hard for me to sing along because I have a low voice. I try to sing the octave lower but those are often too low. So I just go back and forth, sometimes taking the harmony part when I can figure it out.

Seems like life is pretty much like that, now that I think of it. You don't quite have the range for the melody, and the harmony part is a little tricky. So you sing high, sing low, sing out of tune, get back on key and add your voice to the chorus. It might be that this is really just okay.
Come on, Ba-a-by, Don't say May-ay-be. I Gotta Know that your Sweet Love is Gonna Save me. Take it Easy...Ooooooooooooooo

That's me with the cool harmony part...

The Magic of the Sangre de Christos at Dusk

Second Day in the Octave of Christmas

The sun is shining brightly and not a cloud is in the sky..not a negative word is heard, and there are no passers by. We are in an idyllic spot, surrounded by land and sky, and the road is dirt with melting snow which equals mud. The house is warm. The tiles are soaking up the heat and warming the room and me. We filled the bird feeder this morning and put out some bread crumbs as well. They haven't found them yet. Or them don't trust them yet. Which one is it?

I would really like to have the crows come round. One internet site says you can attract crows by putting out canned cat food. I might try it after we get to the store again. I know they like sunflower seeds because I used to put those out on a cookie sheet on my picnic table on the deck, and they came by regularly to eat them. When the seeds were gone, they would line up on the deck rail and walk sideways, first to the left and then to the right, back and forth, peering into the house to see if more seeds were on the way, I guess.

I love crows. They are raucous. They sometimes steal things though not as often as ravens do. They are highly intelligent. They are bullies, I know. I know. But nevertheless, I am always excited to see them. In some indigenous cultures, they are associated with mystery and even magic. Others believe that they are the carriers of prayers or messages from earth people to the spirit world. In any case, they seem wonderful to me and I would thoroughly enjoy seeing them sitting on the adobe wall here that surrounds our courtyard. This photo is of the crow that sits on our bookshelf in the living room.

Carl Jung spoke about the need to come to know and appreciate the shadow, the things we hide deep inside ourselves that complete our wholeness. The things we consider unacceptable and don't even acknowledge about ourselves. Unless we look and acknowledge and accept and integrate these shadow parts, we will not achieve real healing. We will not achieve the ability to perceive others as they are, because we will be too blinded by the projection of our own shadow onto others. Unless we gather up these parts of ourselves, we will remain broken. Perhaps it is another way of looking at redemption.

This crow, this loud, aggressive, bully, is also funny and intelligent and resourceful. Cranky and loyal. Wary and social. This AND that. Not this OR that. Unabashedly wholly crow, in all its seemingly imperfection. God made this crow. And I say, loves this crow. Could that mean that each of us is lovable too?

Wouldn't that be grand to know ourselves to be so wholly and completely acceptable in this our messy menudo of imperfect perfection! This is my prayer today.

Friday, The Second Day in the Octave of Christmas

The Octave of Christmas begins on Christmas Day and continues for eight days. We are in the "re" today, as in Do, Re, Mi, Fa, So, La, Ti, Do. It is the Feast of St. Stephen. It is a full step above the Do, musically speaking. This is the Ionian mode. When you look at a piano you see within one octave, say from C to C, you see eight white keys and five black ones. But when you play a tune like "Mary Had A Little Lamb" or "Desperado", you don't really use all 12 of these keys in the tune. You use the ones that are part of the Do Re Mi. In the key of C, that would be all of the white notes. No black notes.

But interestingly, even though they are all white keys, the difference between each of them is not equal. They are not all whole steps. There are two half steps in the Ionian mode. They are between the third and fourth interval, and the seventh and eighth interval. See? These are the two places where there is no black key in between. But the note next to the C, the first note, is a whole step away. And that is where we are today.

That feels right to me. Today feels like Not Christmas. We have passed through a new beginning day and now we are moving ahead.

In terms of the solstice, Christmas is not Day One, although it is closer to it than January 1, New Year's Day. The actual Day One is around the 20th of December. It is the Winter Solstice. Christmas and Hannukah are very near the winter solstice every year. Christmas roughly coincides with the pagan celebrations that celebrate the return of the light. And the Winter Solstice is the day in our annual cycle that the days, which have been growing shorter since June, start to get longer again. Now the light grows stronger again. Each day it increases until it reaches the midpoint again at the end of June, the Summer Solstice, when it decreases again until the Winter Solstice. It is a circle. Or perhaps a spiral.  Or a series of octaves.

We would then be in the bottom of the circle now, and we are on the way up. Longer days, shorter nights. So at Christmas, we celebrate light. We hang lights, we light candles, we basically light up everything we can get our hands on, because we are glad to have the light return. Because we may love the darkness but if we do, we love it for its respite. If we knew that light was not coming back, we would surely not love it.

So in the Ionian mode of the Octave of Christmas, in the "Re" day, the Feast of St. Stephen, during the beginning of the time after the Winter Solstice when light is returning, I pray that the light will shine very bright. This has been a year with a lot of darkness which seems to have gotten deeper and stronger than ever. Our world has seen so much suffering and hatred, which I equate to the lack of light. So in praying for light, I pray for clarity and guidance and the ability to see that which is love and that which isn't, and to simply choose love. Choose life. Choose light.

Not to worry. It is back. The morning sun shot around the blinds in the bedroom, this morning, and we knew the storm was gone even before we opened them. The very next thing I did, was walk quickly to the dining room and look through the windows. There it was. There it is!

It is the morning of Christmas Eve. Somehow in the midst of all the Christmas stuff flurrying around us, we are here in the stillness and open sky and we can see the mountain.

Because it is clear. It is the light. The deep cloud of snow yesterday, made the light coming through, very dim and stood between us and the mountain. Beautiful in its own way, but yesterday was very dark. Today the clouds are mostly gone. What there are look like streaks of white done like a very light wash with a small watercolor brush.

So here is the thing. We pray to let us see the mountain. Let us see what is there. Let us put aside the clouds and flurries and all that which swirls, and give us the grace to see the mountain. To see that which is right before us all the time.

And perhaps we will even be able to "see" Christmas.

First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is...* This morning there is no mountain. There is no mountain, no sky, no junipers, no pinons, no roads. There is nothing but snow coming down on adobe walls, stacking up on the branches of the otherwise bare winter trees, and piling up on the ground. No mountain.

But this mountain has been my steady point since we arrived here. Now I look in its direction and see nothing. No mountain. Hey!!! I want my mountain!

We take stock of the cupboards and decide that there is food enough for several days. There is left over green chili stew with lamb. There is cheese and milk and butter and tortillas, cereal and a little cibatta left over from the farmer's market, where we also got the green chilis and lamb.
We have power and the fireplace. And candles.

I am rather hoping that we could really get snowed in. A big snow day or two. I don't care if it is Christmas. All the better. There's something almost exciting about weathering the storm, hang blankets in the doorways, build a big fire, heat food on the hearth.

But in actuality, it seems that the snow is slowing down, the cloud is lifting a little and we are just having a little winter weather. All will be back to normal soon and maybe the mountain will show up again. It is just a little disappointing.

But why have expectations? It is what it is. It snows, then it doesn't, then it does. First there is the sky, then there isn't, then there is.

It is a knee jerk process to see something (e.g., the snow) and project a possible scenario, get all worked up about it, feel ready to deal with it, believe and act as though it is a done deal, and miss the now. The now is that the sky has lifted a bit, there is a brighter light, I can see some junipers albeit covered in snow, and the moving vista is beautiful in its changes. Just dig it.

And maybe soon there will be the mountain again.




*There Is A Mountain, by Donovan Leitch

Morning Fire

Green chili stew simmering on the stove. Fire in the soft adobe kiva fireplace. The mountain looks closer today. The sky is grayer. The task of a rewrite of a large book looms formidably as I think of things to do to avoid it. But soon I will crawl into the deep chair by the fire and begin to read and think. Writing the first draft was a different job. It was not such a good idea to think, but rather to allow the characters to do and act and speak as they would. And they did. But now, it is a task of structuring and tightening.
I have been sitting on this now for 10 years. It was the end of November of 1998 when I finished. Then the holidays, then Tom died, then my father died, then the estate needed my constant attention, then moving, then grandchildren, then then then then.......But it won't do itself and it won't go away. So this is my work for the winter in Santa Fe.
The coffee mug I left at home says, "What would you attempt if you knew you could not fail?" And I recently read this: "Fail, try again, fail better."
What is so frightening about failing? For one thing, as long as I do not really say, this is it--the final product--then it can remain a wonderful potential, a perfect treasure. Not so, when it is complete. Then it is there for anyone to see in all its imperfectness. But what is so bad about that?
Where do I get the idea that I even should know how to write a book? A full length novel, at that? Am I so arrogant? Never having done it, still I should have a perfect one?
So my morning prayer today is for the humility to think that it is okay to do my best. Just do it. Just put it out there. Let it go. And if necessary, fail better next time.
Now to the green chair by the fire.

Sunday Morning, St. Joseph's in Cerrillos

Do you want to know that the mountain, whose name I still do not know, is different again today. It is not a shadow and it is not warmed and illuminated by swaths of light. Today it is a cold, nearly black presence, formidable really, with tree-covered patches of what I know to be snow. My knowledge of snow tells me it is white. But in actuality it is a cold gray. The sky is colored with grey as well with the palest yellow in a texture that reminds me of a rutted, washboarded dirt road.

The village of Cerrillos lies south of Santa Fe on the road that continues to Madrid and then on to Albuquerque. It is called the Turquoise Trail, after the old turquoise mines that were predominant in this whole area at one time. There are people who know turquoise who can see a piece of it and say, "Yes, this comes from the Cerillos Mine." Or, "this one comes from Kingman." Each mine has a name. Each mine produces a distinct color and matrx combination. My father made two squash blossom necklaces for me. One with matching stones of robin's egg blue with a warm tan matrix. The other, a contemporary design with a deeper blue color with a silver colored matrix. My father loved turquoise. I do too.

The people who populate this area are the Native Americans, the Spanish and the Anglos. The Spanish culture here is about 500 years old. The Anglos have drifted in from here and there, pioneers, soldiers, hunters, Catholic Priests and Nuns. The Native Americans (who really knows how long) have been here, practically speaking, forever. In a region where resources are scarce, these different cultures have managed to work out a delicate balance of sharing. Sharing land and wood and space and grazing and especially, sharing water. Not that there haven't been problems, but they have managed. And the culture is the richer for it.

The church in Cerrillos is small and very old and well-loved. It is a perfect balance of simple and ornate. The priest is warm and the homily he gives is strong and good. He says, "Spend just a little time each day listening. Listen to God."

Half of the singing is in Spanish and the congregation is Spanish, Native American and Anglo, old and young and every age in between. And it just feels good to be in this space this morning. John, who is a Lutheran by birth, says this is the best church he has ever been in. I like it too. It sits with its straight tall bell-adorned steeple in the small turquoise mining town of Cerrillos. It is approached on dirt streets surrounded by sleepy adobe houses and old stores. A large white dog wanders out of the church courtyard, greeting the people as they leave the church after mass.

Back in our adobe house now, we have a simple lunch of eggs with a bit of tomato, onion and cheese, and tortillas and hot coffee. John gets a good fire burning in the kiva fireplace and I pull my table up next to the fire and watch the flames more than I write.

Does this constitute listening? Sometimes I wish God would talk louder. Like when Bill Cosby used to portray the conversation between Noah and God--a loud voice filling the sky. Unmistakable.

Today the reading was about when the angel came to Mary to tell her she would have a child and He would be holy. I believe God knew that with a message that nuts, he better do something really dramatic like sending Gabriel. Can you imagine this sort of thing being delivered in the small whispers that I strain to hear? I imagine that if that were the case, Mary might have just given her head a shake and gone about her day. "Whoa... maybe not enough sleep or too much coffee or even maybe the beginning of a migraine."

But what about me? What about someone with less important messages to receive? We don't get the Big Visit. We need to learn to listen. Learn through practice. Have a practice of listening. This afternoon I am listening to the fire.

The Market

Saturday in Santa Fe. We awaken to the early light making a soft glow outside our windows. Everything looks pale blue. Later, if the sky stays clear, the bright sun will stream through these windows. But not yet.

Today is Farmer's Market Day. Fresh eggs, crusty bread, hand-dyed skeins of wool from some local sheep, hot coffee roasted with pinon nuts, bright green sunflower and radish and mung bean sprouts from the sprout lady....... and John and I are some of the people who will shuffle through the crowded aisles admiring and choosing what we will bring home.

Last winter The Market was in a temporary space but this year, the new building is complete and it is a permanent farmer's market. Buy Local. What is available is what is in season. This season is winter. So there will be bright red chili ristras and wreaths today.

We come to Santa Fe in the winter because it is beautiful and clear. There is no beach and it is not warm. But it is beautiful, startlingly so. And it is open. Words form and grow here where the sky is so big.

Now, it has happened. The soft blue light has turned to broad beams of bright early sun and that mountain that was all blue yesterday, has slopes of trees and patches of snow. It has ridges and valleys and deep crevasses between mounds of rock. If I lived right here in this very spot for 50 years, I believe I would come to know a lot about that mountain. And the birds that live in this spot and when the ravens like to steal things and what kinds of things, and how close the coyotes will come to this house and what the clouds are saying when they look just like they do this morning--a swath of white paint brushed along the farthest curve of the horizon. That's it.

Is this another prayer? To just look and listen? This land is speaking but I must be very quiet if I want to hear what it is saying. So I say, here it is then: Let me learn to quiet my head and heart in order to hear, in order to see, in order to feel this creation.

Advent Morning

The sky here compels me. I cannot easily turn away. All is still this morning, and the junipers and pinons are quiet. Last night they danced furiously as the wind blew sheets of snow around their feet. Today the deep night blue mountains in the distance are not yet caught up in the sunlight because a thin dusting of cloud covers most of the gray blue sky. Between the hunkering bushes, the snow lies white or what seems like white to my non-artist eye.
This is enough. God, did you make this all in order to show off? Like riding your bicycle past my window with no hands? I think perhaps you are saying, "If this doesn't get your attention and admiration, I don't know what will!"
This is no dandelion crushed in the hands of a loving child. This is no box of chocolates. This is the real deal.
I have a hard time praying. I always have. But there are tears in my eyes at the wonder of this creation. Will this do for now?