Have you seen...

Soybeans and corn--the two crops this rural area produces--flank the sides of the road I walk. Every spring, we wonder which will be planted where, and wait to see what sprouts.
Our summer is measured by the growth of the crops, and winter's approach, by the harvest. There's not a tree to break the January wind that howls down this lane--enough to freeze your cheeks and make your eyes tear.
It's not yet time to see the changes spring will bring here--little green onions and the killdeer.
But, every day, I look, hoping.


The frost on the cobs,

and the husks

are its fruits of this season.

"Have you seen...." is an effort to discover the unusual beauty in things not usually appreciated for their beauty.

I’ve never understood the lack of respect for land.
Why it would be considered an act of rudeness to empty a car’s ashtray in someone’s yard, yet the pavement of intersections is deep with cigarette butts.
Why the muddy pond bottoms bear more aluminum cans, than rocks.

Or, why the road’s edge in front of my home is free from trash, while this field down the lane is scattered with beer bottles and the ditch full of discarded tires.

Is it because if no one catches us, it’s ok? Or, are there different rules for our behavior toward someone’s personal property versus “vacant” land?

Because every acre is someone’s property, even public lands.
And, as humans, the impact we leave upon this earth far outweighs our stature in it.

A Moment in Time

There are images that remain in my mind, filed in a special place, remembered for the impression they left upon me. Not a thing of particular beauty, but a moment that has escaped the ordinary.
So precious and rare, that even at the instant it occurred, it is known there will not be another like it.



The wooded ravine behind our house is home to a family of deer, walking the creek bed in all seasons, browsing leaves in spring and summer, hidden against the fallen brown of autumn. On a winter’s snow-covered backdrop, they become visible. And spend afternoons resting as a group, dotted upon the opposite bank.

Several years ago, they spent an afternoon there; while we, inside our house, looked out, pleased that the warm sunshine and still air would soon be welcoming spring. From time to time, one would stand and resettle herself a few yards to the side or start a game of tag with another young doe, bounding in circles, returning to rest. For the better part of the day they stayed, rooted to that spot, comfortably safe.

As evening approached, they rose to move on—all but one.
Her head gracefully laid back, the large doe that led them to this spot lay still, in the midst of her family, reclined in the sun. One by one, the others went to her, tentatively investigating her quietness--sniffing, nose-to-nose. They seemed to hesitate—unsure whether to stay, or go.
Then, slowly walked off into the woods.

Her body was still warm as I touched her—though her eyes were closed, chest still. Not a mark hinted of any trouble—perhaps she’d simply grown old.
Exactly when she’d died that sunny afternoon on the bank, we weren’t sure. But I wondered if she’d known her moment would be soon and brought her family to this spot to stay with her.

Over the next few days, we watched as her family returned to her side, with each pass through the creek bed, lingering there, sometimes resting with her, as they had days earlier.

By springtime, her body had returned to the earthen bank.



The path is worn daily, by deer seeking food, the cover of brush, the safety of the woods.
And behind the sycamore, is a perfect resting spot.

My window seat

When we were house shopping 15 years ago, transplanted from upstate New York to southwestern Ohio, we settled upon this old, 1835 brick farmhouse, situated atop a hill in a rural area. It needed a ton of work, as many “historic” homes do, but it offered a unique spot for us, for it snuggles up to a wooded ravine.
Perched between large, old hickories and countless sprouting locusts, we look out over sycamores and redbuds dotting the banks, and down upon a little stream bubbling along in early spring, filled in by summer with bee balm. Almost immediately we began construction on an addition—extending to within 6 feet of the woods’ edge—with lots of glass on 3 sides.
It’s my window on the world.


This morning, a dusting of snow reveals the many tracks of what is usually hidden here—barely visible against the brown, leafy backdrop. Watching, as the morning sun begins to cast long shadows through the trees, I feel as if the curtain is being raised. The stage is lit, the show is about to begin, and I have the best seat in the house.

I’ve done my best in these very cold days, to keep the feeding stations filled. It’s a daily task—and the air still holds the heavy scent of lard, from rendering fat from suet. Muffin tins and cookie sheets are filled with cakes—but think twice before you grab a snack—it’s most likely bird food!

The ground beneath the feeders has been worn bare of snow—scratched by towhees and fox sparrows. But against the snowy woods, silhouettes in the darkness become bright cardinals, purple finches and blue jays—the only spots of color against brown branches.
Three days ago, I looked out to these feeders and found the action frozen in place—the usual flitting of chickadees, titmice, wrens and nuthatches, oddly ceased. There, a few feet away, a sharp-shinned hawk patiently waited for carelessness.



Today, the deer, using the frozen stream bed as their highway from the oakstand in the back woods, have come up toward the feeders to browse the few shriveled leaves of the honeysuckles. Up in the hole of the sycamore, a squirrel peeks out, testing the morning air. A pileated woodpecker hops from tree to tree, spiraling to the bottom of each—then flying methodically to the next. Only the downy, hairy and red-bellied visit the feeders.

Pileated Woodpecker on underside of horizontal branch, 1/4/08

Pileated on dead tree, 1/1/08

I could sit here all day, watching their world from my window.


Birds seen from my window January 1, 2008
Fox Sparrow, Red (pictured)
Song Sparrow
White-throated Sparrow
American Goldfinch
House Finch
Purple Finch
Carolina Chickadee
White-breasted Nuthatch
Carolina Wren
Tufted Titmouse
Dark-eyed Junco, Slate-colored (pictured)
Eastern Towhee
Brown-headed Cowbird
Northern Flicker
Downy Woodpecker
Hairy Woodpecker
Red-bellied Woodpecker
Pileated Woodpecker (pictured)
Blue Jay
Cardinal
Mourning Dove (pictured)
European Starling
Sharp-shinned Hawk

The road we're on

This road I walk, in all seasons, in all weather. I know it will always provide just what I need.

It's the road I've walked with my husband, an after dinner stroll, sharing the events of our days.
It's the road I've walked with my girls, as they grew, hoping to always be the one they'd bring their troubles to.
It's the road I've walked with my dog, to stretch our legs and breathe deeply--2 creatures caged for most of the day.

But when I walk alone, the road is my wide open space. Planted in corn or soybeans by the neighboring farm each spring--in winter, its emptiness allows me freedom from distractions. Freedom to reflect, or wonder, or dream.

If I'm lucky, not a car will pass, as I wander along.
Thinking of this year's accomplishments and hopes for the next.
And marveling that, on the last day of December, when I should be inside, preparing for the evening's festivities, the frosty weeds at the road's edge have me captivated--again.



In this new year, may you see each day as a journey, with hidden respites along the road, beauty abounding to feed your soul.
And may you be rewarded for discovering that it lies, waiting for you, always there.

Seven Random Facts

Long ago, (mid December) I was tagged for the Seven Random Facts meme by Jennifer at A Passion for Nature.
I didn't intend to sit on this for quite so long, just got wrapped up in the holidays and am just unwrapping myself now!

Here are the rules:
1. Link to the person who tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 random or weird things about yourself.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

My Seven Random Facts (added to the Eight I've revealed earlier) are:
1. I’m old enough to feel that "you're becoming your parent" is a compliment.
2. I’m not as old as my house.
(me— 1959, my house—ca.1835)
3. I eat to live; not live to eat. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy good food, just don’t spend a lot of time or effort preparing it. Except soup.
4. I’ve always loved the Little House on the Prairie series. The pioneer days would have suited me well. Just keep that Nellie Oleson far from me!
5. We don’t have cable TV—never had it; never will. Not that I wouldn’t get some benefit from certain channels, but I tend not to be able to sit and watch for very long without feeling there is something else I could be doing.
(or should be doing) (or could be learning) (or should be learning) (could this be adult ADD?)
6. I find public discussions about PMS about as interesting and appropriate as commercials featuring giant green mucus plugs.
7. I believe much is said about a person by the content of their pockets. Mine typically have: an old receipt, a chapstick and various assorted acorns and pinecones.
So, what’s in your pocket?

I know it's likely these people have been tagged before, but just in case, I'll tag seven more. Of all the memes floating past, I always like the opportunity this one gives for sharing a bit more of ourselves than we would typically reveal on our blogs. (and if it's just not your "thing"--that's okay, too)

T.R. at From the Faraway, Nearby
Carolyn at Nature Art Photography
Swampy at Swamp Things
Kerri at A Little Piece of Me
Diane at Sand to Glass
Caroline at Crayons
Chris at Chicago Nature Lady

Trail of a muskrat

Days of blue skies are an invitation to walk.
And, lacking any breeze to speak of, Christmas morning’s bright sunshine brought a curiosity that I answered with hiking boots, light jacket and camera.
Our pond, far enough from the house to require a short walk, but close enough to catch a glimpse from the kitchen window, always intrigues me. And although springtime’s frog population and the summer months’ basking turtles are far more “exciting” to watch, it holds a certain beauty in winter—
when the surface is stilled by ice, its life trapped beneath the surface.


The lightest layer of ice has formed across the water, smoothing the surface like peering through a glass—the leafy bottom easily seen beyond the icy needles.
Soon, the thickening ice will hide her paths, but the trail of bubbles caught beneath it mark her route in and out of the bank--perfectly round, clustered glassy beads of all shapes and sizes.
Though I haven’t seen her since late summer, I know she is here, beneath the ice, waiting for spring.

Silent Night

Christmas preparations are behind me--and, early enough to be able to enjoy this season, finding a few moments away from the hustle.

Saturday's mildness was whisked away by a chilling wind--tumbling darkly-shadowed, rosy clouds across a winter landscape.


Crawling into a flannel bed that night, I was thankful for the shelter of a warm, brick house--as the night raged about outside my rattling window.
I wondered how anything small could not be blown away on such an unfriendly night.


The next morning a thick blanket of clouds remained--silvery strips, as the sun played peek-a-boo with the wind.



But tonight all is quiet.
It is the silent, holy night.