We parked the car at the foot of the hills. As soon as we stepped out, a flock of finches flew out of the rosemary bushes and disappeared into the evergreen pear trees. Within moments they reappeared and alighted on the bushes, giving us a view of their yellow breasts and reddish heads and charming us with their playfulness. Against the backdrop of the green hills, they represented the stirring life of spring.
We took to the long and winding trail, savoring each step in the wilderness. The sun peeked from behind the clouds and a misty rain fell as well, but soon it was clear and a light breeze blew, rippling the grass in the meadow. The trail was lined with miner's lettuce, monkey flowers and thistles. Coastal oaks sprouting fresh leaves and laurel and olive trees spread their seductive shadows away from the trail.
Just ahead, we saw a group of wild turkeys meandering along the trail. As we approached, they vanished into the thickets. An eagle, then another and yet another, flew over the trees into the open sky, drifting laterally and then circling and drifting again.
When we came to the familiar opening, we saw the two oak trees within whose encircling leaves we had stood so many times before, listening to the birds. Today, we just looked at them and felt their presence suffuse us. They had grown even more beautiful in all the months that we did not visit but we told ourselves they were glad to see us too. A jay perched on a fallen laurel looked down at the sloping meadow that merged into another trail by which the creek flowed. We moved on.
The wind had picked up speed and the tall grasses rippled with conviction. Wildflowers were everywhere, sorrels and lupines and clovers and a few we didn't know the names of. At one point we stopped to marvel at the grace of the green hills resting against a calm sky. From the undergrowth came bird songs of infinite variety, pure music of earth and sky.
We had never hiked this far up the trail, always resting at the eucalyptus grove from which we could see the valley and the city stretching away in all directions. But we were determined to reach the summit of the skyway trail today. We should have brought some water but the air was cool and the thirst did not pose any challenge. Besides, the creek was not far away, if it came to that ...
We flushed a flock of doves from the underbrush, feeling guilty and thrilled at the same time. Finches, sparrows, jays kept up their twitter nonstop. There had been warnings of wild animal sightings, particularly mountain lions, but the fear only added to our adventure. We came in peace for mankind; that's what we would tell the wild animal were we to encounter one .Surely it would understand and leave us alone.
We were now approaching the end of the trail and soon enough we were there, tired and sweating but also exhilarated.
Along with the regular wildflowers, we were surprised to find many daffodils, tossing and turning just as the famous English poet had come upon them long ago and immortalized them in the poem that we had memorized in our childhood. Must be due to pollination. We didn't see why anyone would plant daffodils here. But then, there is no dearth of lovable eccentrics in this part of the world.
We sat on the worn bench and took in the view. After a while, huge bees began to buzz us, the air thick with them. We had trespassed into their territory. A dove cooed and a jay shrieked. But we had seen what we wanted to see and began tracing our way back.
Near the end of the trail, we met two elderly couples tending to their vegetable patches.
"What are you growing?"
"Oh, just some cucumbers, tomatoes, radishes, squash, peppers and mint."
"Wow, that will cut down on your grocery bill!"
Laughter all around.
The finchess were still there. This time, they stayed in the rosemary bushes, frolicking and singing with abandon.
Showing posts with label spring. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spring. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Spring Rain
Since the official arrival of spring on Saturday, March 19, the rain has been coming down hard on Santa Clara Valley. This hill, this valley, never seemed so lush green. I exaggerate, of course. Every time we get plentiful rain in spring, and there have been many such years in the last two decades between droughts, these hills and valleys become as verdant as the imagination allows.
Today was particularly wet. Strong winds accompanied the rain that fell in gray, slanted slabs, flooding roads and fields. I walked across one of these fields to the creek near my home. It was swollen with brown, rushing water that looked like a small river in its own right. The oaks, sycamores and cottonwoods that lined its banks swayed with wind and dimpled the creek with drops. The ancient sound of water against rock filling the woods is the gift of a day like this. You listen to this music, the music of earth and sky and forest, and feel peace enter your body and soul.
Gulls and geese flew in formation across a barren sky. I heard birds chirping in the upper reaches of the trees but couldn't see any. A calla lily and several stands of cattails moved to and fro as the creek flowed past them toward the sea. I could see cows moving briskly on the hills through the gap in the trees. It was is if they were unsure of where to graze, since the grass looked so tempting everywhere. It was a comical bovine sight.
The forecast calls for more rain in the coming days. You can almost sense the wildflowers preparing to shoot forth from inside the earth when rain ends. Poppies, lupines, sorrels, soon they will sprout by the roadside and on meadows and forest floors. I don't miss the sun. We will have plenty of it soon enough as the long days of summer approach. Now is the time for rain, when the sounds of the world fall away and all the silences we have known since childhood weave enchanting stories of love and longing.
Today was particularly wet. Strong winds accompanied the rain that fell in gray, slanted slabs, flooding roads and fields. I walked across one of these fields to the creek near my home. It was swollen with brown, rushing water that looked like a small river in its own right. The oaks, sycamores and cottonwoods that lined its banks swayed with wind and dimpled the creek with drops. The ancient sound of water against rock filling the woods is the gift of a day like this. You listen to this music, the music of earth and sky and forest, and feel peace enter your body and soul.
Gulls and geese flew in formation across a barren sky. I heard birds chirping in the upper reaches of the trees but couldn't see any. A calla lily and several stands of cattails moved to and fro as the creek flowed past them toward the sea. I could see cows moving briskly on the hills through the gap in the trees. It was is if they were unsure of where to graze, since the grass looked so tempting everywhere. It was a comical bovine sight.
The forecast calls for more rain in the coming days. You can almost sense the wildflowers preparing to shoot forth from inside the earth when rain ends. Poppies, lupines, sorrels, soon they will sprout by the roadside and on meadows and forest floors. I don't miss the sun. We will have plenty of it soon enough as the long days of summer approach. Now is the time for rain, when the sounds of the world fall away and all the silences we have known since childhood weave enchanting stories of love and longing.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
The Swallows of Summer
A pair of swallows built their nest in the eaves above my garage in spring. I became aware of them in summer when their droppings began to stain the garage door and the driveway. Their comings and goings fascinated me and I felt no animosity toward them while cleaning up their mess.
One day my landscaper told me he could remove the nest with a powerful blast from a hose
"Oh no, I don't want want you to do that," I said, horrified at the prospect.
"You like cleaning poop?"
"well, I love birds, and if I have to clean their poop to enjoy them, I don't mind."
He looked at me strangely. The message was unmistakeable: Something was seriously wrong with me. We both laughed, however, and never talked about this anymore.
The swallows were a delight. Occasionally they would put on a show, particularly in the lingering dusk, wheeling and stitching the air with deft aerobics. Other swallows materialized and the flock would fly with sheer joy, rising, falling and rising again. Sweeping away the pair's detritus was the least I could do by way of thanks.
But now it is winter and my swallows are gone, lured by warmth somewhere in the south. The nest is empty but filled with memories of life lived with joy and freedom. Jibananda Das, a Bengali poet, compared the longing evoked by a bird's nest to the longing evoked by his lover as her sight alights on him. If you have never carefully looked at a nest, this metaphor will seem unconvincing to you. But of you have, love will stir in your heart as you recite the poet's "Banalata Sen."
It's raining today and a strong wind is blowing. The street is strewn with red and yellow leaves. They dance furiously in the wind, tracing blurry circles and ellipses, and then suddenly they race along the street in hundred-meter dashes. Some ravens flit from tree to tree. Suddenly the sun peeks from behind the clouds and just as suddenly, it is swallowed again, but not before I catch sight of a rainbow lighting up the green hills.
Will my swallows return in spring, not any pair but this pair? Probably not. Probably another pair will make the empty nest their own. I am ready to welcome them but the winter feels long and spring seems far away.
One day my landscaper told me he could remove the nest with a powerful blast from a hose
"Oh no, I don't want want you to do that," I said, horrified at the prospect.
"You like cleaning poop?"
"well, I love birds, and if I have to clean their poop to enjoy them, I don't mind."
He looked at me strangely. The message was unmistakeable: Something was seriously wrong with me. We both laughed, however, and never talked about this anymore.
The swallows were a delight. Occasionally they would put on a show, particularly in the lingering dusk, wheeling and stitching the air with deft aerobics. Other swallows materialized and the flock would fly with sheer joy, rising, falling and rising again. Sweeping away the pair's detritus was the least I could do by way of thanks.
But now it is winter and my swallows are gone, lured by warmth somewhere in the south. The nest is empty but filled with memories of life lived with joy and freedom. Jibananda Das, a Bengali poet, compared the longing evoked by a bird's nest to the longing evoked by his lover as her sight alights on him. If you have never carefully looked at a nest, this metaphor will seem unconvincing to you. But of you have, love will stir in your heart as you recite the poet's "Banalata Sen."
It's raining today and a strong wind is blowing. The street is strewn with red and yellow leaves. They dance furiously in the wind, tracing blurry circles and ellipses, and then suddenly they race along the street in hundred-meter dashes. Some ravens flit from tree to tree. Suddenly the sun peeks from behind the clouds and just as suddenly, it is swallowed again, but not before I catch sight of a rainbow lighting up the green hills.
Will my swallows return in spring, not any pair but this pair? Probably not. Probably another pair will make the empty nest their own. I am ready to welcome them but the winter feels long and spring seems far away.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
A Touch of the Wild
There is a section of a scenic highway on my way to work that enlivens my otherwise bland commute. Especially in spring, the sights fill the senses. It rained last night and this morning the sky looks as if it has been scrubbed clean to let its pure blue shine through. Hills and valleys lie in repose and eagles soar above the oaks and the willows. Here and there yellow mustard and orange poppies make the green meadows appear even greener.
Between two roads named Deer Creek and Coyote Hill, I catch a glimpse of white and chestnut horses basking in the fullness of spring sunshine. What compels my attention, though, is a colt that seems to be dancing rather than running, and a woman pursuing it with glee, coaxing it to eat oats out of a bucket she is holding. The two are engaged in a tango, and the sense of playfulness between animal and human is palpable.
A few minutes later I am at my desk, turning on computers and preparing to spend yet one more day of my life working with “productivity tools,” email and the Web. It is when I am about to save my work an hour later, in the service of a Silicon Valley company that pays my bills, that it hits me: what I am doing chained to my desk indoors when life is expressing itself with such force and zest outdoors? I cannot shake off the image of the frisky colt. A sadness slowly seeps into my day.
It is almost impossible now to imagine a day without the Web. That's understandable, given how deeply it has become woven into our lives. But what is tragic is how easily we have learned to pass our days without a single contact with nature. True, these are desperate times. People are losing their livelihood and their homes. Soup kitchens cannot keep up with demand. A cruel recession has already taken on the signs of a depression. Who has time for nature?
But that's precisely what we must make time for as we turn inward for solace and give up things we had no use for in the first place. A less cluttered life looks more and more appealing. Thoreau's call for simplicity resonates. We are rich, to paraphrase the Bard of Walden, in proportion to the number of things we can afford to let alone. To put this into practice, we ought to renew our relationship with nature, to go for a walk in the woods, to take to the trails, to look with fresh eyes at the trees and the birds where we live, to grow something in the backyard or on the window sills. I know I will because I can think of no better way to clear my perspective and cleanse my soul.
Between two roads named Deer Creek and Coyote Hill, I catch a glimpse of white and chestnut horses basking in the fullness of spring sunshine. What compels my attention, though, is a colt that seems to be dancing rather than running, and a woman pursuing it with glee, coaxing it to eat oats out of a bucket she is holding. The two are engaged in a tango, and the sense of playfulness between animal and human is palpable.
A few minutes later I am at my desk, turning on computers and preparing to spend yet one more day of my life working with “productivity tools,” email and the Web. It is when I am about to save my work an hour later, in the service of a Silicon Valley company that pays my bills, that it hits me: what I am doing chained to my desk indoors when life is expressing itself with such force and zest outdoors? I cannot shake off the image of the frisky colt. A sadness slowly seeps into my day.
It is almost impossible now to imagine a day without the Web. That's understandable, given how deeply it has become woven into our lives. But what is tragic is how easily we have learned to pass our days without a single contact with nature. True, these are desperate times. People are losing their livelihood and their homes. Soup kitchens cannot keep up with demand. A cruel recession has already taken on the signs of a depression. Who has time for nature?
But that's precisely what we must make time for as we turn inward for solace and give up things we had no use for in the first place. A less cluttered life looks more and more appealing. Thoreau's call for simplicity resonates. We are rich, to paraphrase the Bard of Walden, in proportion to the number of things we can afford to let alone. To put this into practice, we ought to renew our relationship with nature, to go for a walk in the woods, to take to the trails, to look with fresh eyes at the trees and the birds where we live, to grow something in the backyard or on the window sills. I know I will because I can think of no better way to clear my perspective and cleanse my soul.
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