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Gift of Sight

Gift of Sight

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During these wide-open days of winter, I’ve been keeping a pair of binoculars on my desk. They’re fast becoming an essential element of this writer’s toolkit. 

I’m watching a fox sun himself in a sunny corner of our backyard. He paws at the snow, ambles around the hollies. Every so often he glances up with his perky ears and catlike face (a winning combination since the rest of him is doglike). Does he see me watching him? 

I marvel at the alertness of his posture, the thickness of his reddish-brown fur, his winter coat. I imagine the feel of the sun on his back, the generations of wildness in his bones. 

He is a gift, as are the woodpeckers and cardinals at the feeder. A reminder of the creatures who live among us, the natural world we inhabit. The binoculars help me see the fox and, by extension, all of creation.

Split Rail

Split Rail

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A frosty walk this morning, a split-rail fence beside me part of the way.  Surely this is fencing lite, only the barest barricade, I think, as I amble beside one of the more open models (two horizontals). 

Though now they now seem more decorative than anything else, split-rail fences have a long history in this country. They were used to mark property boundaries, protect crops and livestock, and, during the Civil War, troops burned them to keep warm. 

In my neighborhood, split-rail fences are the only kind allowed in front yards. In the back you can go wild with a picket or other plank styles, but the front must be open, natural — much like the snippet of yard I photographed this morning. 

It’s a fence … but barely. 

Foggy Morning

Foggy Morning

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I woke up to a lovely fog: a world of softened edges and limited horizons. 

Gone is the street behind me, and the house with the long drive beyond. Front and center are the particulars of my yard: the leaf piles at the back, the twisted trunk of the volunteer cherry, the covered garden bench.

Fog makes us all myopic. It takes away the forest and gives us the trees. It provides an excuse for seeing only what is close at hand. 

Sometimes I need that.

Accumulation of Misery

Accumulation of Misery

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There is something to be said for writing these posts early in the morning, before I’ve fully inhabited the day or, especially these last two weeks, read the newspaper. 

This morning’s news was no more disheartening or sad than any other day of the last two weeks. 

It’s just the accumulation of misery that’s making it hard to concentrate on the golden leaves of the witch hazel tree, the last few blooms of the climbing rose. 

The Zucchini

The Zucchini

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The world is in turmoil. Winter is right around the corner. Time for some positivity, which comes today in the form of a vegetable.

I’ve mourned the trees as they’ve fallen. Now to celebrate the sunniness that has come in their wake.

There’s no better proof of this than the plump zucchini that managed to thrive in the back garden. In fact, it became so large that the only palatable way to eat it will be grated in bread or pancakes.

Still, this is a milestone. I’m not yet rushing out to plant a vegetable garden, but I’ll begin to think of the backyard not as a shady place … but as a sunny one.

Deer Management

Deer Management

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“Shoo! Get out! What are you doing back here?”

At first the deer looked at me blankly, as if they had no idea what the fuss was about, why I might be waving my arms at them as they strolled casually through the backyard. 

Eventually they got the idea, though, and I counted them as they raced along the fence line and leapt into the common land. 

One, two, three, four, five. Their white tails waved as they vaulted themselves into the air. 

A small herd, but a herd just the same. 

(This sign is not in my backyard, but it did come to mind this morning.)

From Hillock to Hammock

From Hillock to Hammock

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Yesterday I hiked off in search of a trail I’d heard about over the weekend. It was a path I thought I knew, but after reaching it, I quickly discovered it was just a short cut-through route. 

A waste of time? Not really. One good thing about living somewhere a while is knowing approximately where you are, even when you’re turned around. 

I knew that if I backtracked up a little hillock I would find a street that connected me with an entire trail system, one that would take me home.

Ninety minutes later, I was relaxing in the hammock. 

The Locals

The Locals

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It’s still pleasant on the deck at 8 a.m. as I watch the locals begin their day. Sparrows hop on and off the feeder, leaving it swinging slightly with their featherweight hops. 

A downy woodpecker clings to a post, and a bluebird lands on the deck railing, sees me and flies away. 

Now that the coneflowers have gone to seed the goldfinches have arrived. They enjoy the zinnias, too, which are still plentiful enough for cutting. 

From the neighbor’s yard, I hear bluejays screeching and crows cawing. And in the tangle of rose branches above my head, a chickadee calls, as if to say, don’t forget about me.

All that’s missing is the whir of a hummingbird’s wing. 

I’m waiting.

Mood Lighting

Mood Lighting

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All day long they absorb the sun’s rays, so by the time night falls they’re ready to go. 

The new deck lights emit a spectral glow. Thanks to the cut-outs on their frame, the shadows they throw are squiggly and whimsical.

If you’re looking for complete illumination, they’re not the way to go. But if you’re after mood lighting, a way to be in the darkness but not completely surrounded by it, they’re just the ticket.

 

From a Distance

From a Distance

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I’ve spent a few evenings this week rocking in the hammock as day dwindles to darkness. It’s a show worth watching. 

At first, my focal point has been the sky, the lightning bugs (fewer than last year but still blinking), and the garden, in peak bloom with coneflowers, day lilies, roses and zinnias. 

Eventually, though, I can’t help but notice the house, which appears almost fetching in the half-light. I can’t spot its deficiencies as I do in the no-nonsense noontime glare. I forget about the azalea that needs pruning, the deck that needs mending, the door that needs replacing. 

All I see is my home. How beautiful it looks … from a distance.