“Your head is a living forest full of songbirds.“ — e.e. cummings
Bushtit. September 24, 2021
Black-capped Chickadee. September 24, 2021
House Finches. December 12, 2020
Scrub Jay. November 14, 2021
Head full of songbirds
Author: Tracy Abell
Sunday Confessional: not this time
It’s good I have photographic proof of flowers that bloomed in my garden over the past two Mays, because they’ll have a hard time showing up this year in my weed and grass-choked beds.
May 2, 2020
For the past month or so, I’ve either had to wear a splint on my left-hand ring finger or tape that finger to the middle finger in order to immobilize it. I strained the tendons badly (at least, that’s what I’m guessing) while trying to rotate our compost tumbler that sits on casters (the tumbler we built in order for me to know how to write a how-to book for young readers) and so haven’t done any bed clean-up in front this spring. One-handed gardening is above my pay grade.
As we returned from a walk just now, I averted my gaze from our front yard. Poor little perennials, struggling to push through the dead and mess I can’t remove. Zippy has no time or energy for yard work because he’s working hard to finish the van build and the quotes we received from clean-up businesses were very high, so the mess will remain.
Lucky for me, vinca is a hardy little plant.
May 7, 2021
It always finds a way to make its presence known.
Friday Haiku
April 20, 2022
Abandoned spaceship
metal rusting and dented
aliens long gone
Who knows where the time goes?
Somehow it is seven o’clock and the daylight’s fading fast.
April 20, 2022
Here I am , still wearing the running togs I wore on the trails this morning, hair a mess and body somewhat odiferous. In between that run and this blog post, I did some stuff, mostly little bits of this and some of that. But instead of feeling anxiety at the end of such a piecemeal day, I’m at peace.
Who knows where the time goes? Who cares?
Listening to the trees
April 20, 2022
I like to take the time out to listen to the trees,
much in the same way that I listen to a sea shell,
holding my ear against the rough bark of the trunk,
hearing the inner singing of the sap.
It’s a lovely sound, the beating of the heart of the tree. ~ Madeleine L’Engle
Twofer Tuesday: antelope edition
Last week after leaving the Crow Valley Campground, we drove the 21-mile Birding Tour in the Pawnee National Grasslands. Alas, due to strong winds and dust, there weren’t a whole lot of birds out and about (aside from a huge number of Horned Larks which we’d never seen before plus some hawks on the ground that were too far away to identify).
However, we were gifted with antelope sightings. This small herd ran away from us as we sat idling on the road way far away from them. It seems antelope do not take any chances and will bolt at the first sign of danger.
April 21, 2022
And here they are after reaching a distance far enough away to feel safe. They stopped and wheeled around to watch us.
The scenery for that entire bumpy drive on the gravel roads was brown-brown-brown and we constantly scanned for movement. My (hopeful) eyes were often tricked into believing I saw running antelope, but it was almost always tumbling tumbleweeds blowing across the desolate landscape. Those tumbleweeds moved very quickly and I would’ve loved to see one blowing alongside the running antelope in order to compare speeds.
The antelope, though, brought me the most joy. No contest.
Bee calm
A little reminder to focus on the tiny, intricate miracles all around us.
September 12, 2020
This sedum isn’t blooming right now and I doubt many bees are currently buzzing in my yard, but . . . someday soon. In the meanwhile, I can gaze upon this image and will my mind and system into calm. *deep breaths* Maybe it can do the same for you. 💚
Sunday song
We took our first camping trip of the year at the Pawnee National Grasslands. That area is supposed to provide a magnificent night sky and we went in hopes of seeing the meteor shower. Turns out we didn’t put much effort into the sky because the high winds made it unpleasant. So unpleasant, in fact, that we came home a day early.
The good news is, there was a lull in the wind on Thursday evening and we walked the trails around the Crow Valley Campground. The lighting was divine as birds serenaded us. Here’s a Red-winged Blackbird in song:
And here’s an American Robin singing as it perches on the fence next to a couple of the MANY tumbleweeds in the area (which I either leapt over or plowed through when running on the trails the next morning):
Here’s a Western Meadowlark singing its heart out:
This last one–Turkey Vulture– was silent, but it was a thrill when Zippy spotted it because on our maiden voyage last April, a whole bunch of Turkey Vultures roosted above our campervan.
Others may disagree, but I consider a Turkey Vulture sighting a good omen for the coming camping season.
Wordless Wednesday
Lake Hasty. April 28
Twofer Tuesday: prairie dog wisdom
Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer. ~ William S. Burroughs
South Boulder Creek Trail. March 1, 2022
Now I know the things I know, and do the things I do;
and if you do not like me so, to hell, my love, with you.
~
Joyful tidings
I am overflowing with joy right now after finishing the latest round of revisions on my middle grade novel. One full day ahead of my self-imposed deadline!
July 15, 2021
I love this book. But for the next little while (two weeks, at the absolute minimum), I’m not going to think about those characters and their problems at all. I’m gonna soak up some of the life that takes place away from my standing desk and refill my well. Starting with our first camping trip of the season later this week. Woot!
Joyful tidings, indeed.
P.S. Did you know that a flock of magpies is called a “tiding”? Me, neither. So how cool is it that this morning’s oracle card drawing from my feathered messengers deck was . . . MAGPIE!
Friday Haiku
Standley Lake. April 12, 2022
Avian still life
evidence of flight or fight
beachcomber’s delight
Allow me to explain
As previously mentioned, I’m having vision issues and haven’t been taking photos because focusing is a real struggle. However, earlier this week I took my camera with me to Standley Lake where I walked with a friend. The day was windy. So windy we got sand in our mouths. So windy, I didn’t want to take time to mess with camera settings. So windy, the gusts buffeted my camera as I took shots. So windy, I didn’t really worry about photo quality. And it shows.
These are American Coots, riding the waves. Standley Lake doesn’t usually have whitecaps, but it did that day.
April 12, 2022
Here’s a coyote my friend spotted across the lake. We’d kept wondering why the coots chose to stay out in the rougher water rather than sheltering in some cove. Maybe they knew this predator was roaming the shore.
We heard a Western Meadowlark and turned to see this perching bird. A quick snap of the camera before I ducked my head against the wind again. It wasn’t until I got home that I realized it was an American Kestrel.
Lastly, here’s what I believe is a Bald Eagle. This photo is garbage, but I can still remember the thrill of standing there on the sand as it flew directly toward us before veering off over the trees.
All in all, a successful outing. A nice walk-and-talk with my friend, nearly 4.5 miles of walking, and some wildlife sightings. (Not to mention the free microdermabrasion treatment as sand blasted our faces).
Tranquil memories
Despite the scattered evidence of beavers’ handiwork, I recall the tranquility of this spot. We didn’t see any beavers that day, but their lodge is visible where the water comes to a V at the center of this not-great photo.
Uncompahgre National Forest. July 29, 2019
That was a good hike and beautiful day with Zippy and Emma, and I’m grateful for the memories.
Oh, happy day
I won’t be forced to commit a crime against the new neighbors who let their Hummer idle for a minimum of ten minutes every weekday morning!
Day lilies exploding like fireworks. July 3, 2020
Their kids just came over to sell us chocolate for a school fundraiser and in the ensuring conversation with their dad, we learned they’re only renting that house for two months. Hooray!
I can handle two months of roaring, rumbling, exhaust-spewing activity across the street. I think. And if not, I will initiate a conversation. That conversation may or may not be well-received, but it’s not gonna be a forever kind of relationship, so . . . oh well.
Right now I’m just celebrating the fact I won’t always live across the street from people who believe it makes sense to drive their kids to school in a gas-guzzling assault vehicle. Oh, happy day.
Friday Haiku
August 15, 2019
Cruisin’ down the street
hoops spinning, scooter rolling
zero carbon mode
Wordless Wednesday: green balls edition
Austin T. Blakeslee Natural Area. August 18, 2019
Feathered friends
Today the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) issued what is basically its final warning to governments (“it’s now or never” regarding greenhouse gas emissions), and my heart is pounding as I type those words. We the people need to rise up and demand radical action. Unfortunately, here in the U.S. our so-called leadership is actually talking about ramping up fossil fuel production. It’s insanity.
And when reality gets to be too much, I turn to nature. Today, it’s birds. Here’s a Limpkin I had the honor of communing with at Kapok Park in Florida:
May 6, 2019
Here’s a petite Bushtit outside my Colorado window:
September 24, 2021
Here’s a Turkey Vulture doing its important clean-up work in Cave Creek Canyon in Arizona:
May 15, 2019
Finally, here’s a Common Grackle singing its song in Nebraska clover:
June 2, 2020
And now I’m going to use the energy I’ve borrowed from those wonderful birds and head out for a run on the trails where I’ll drink up more of this glorious world.
#Caturday truths
You can observe a lot by just watching. ~ Yogi Berra
October 9, 2021
Marcel takes Yogi’s sage insight to heart, watching out the window as his brother Loki naps beside him, oblivious to the birds on the awning.
Friday Haiku
Barr Lake State Park. April 8, 2021
watery canvas
tree and sky painted surface
framed by rock and mud
Bad news good news
Earlier this week, I wore my Marmot raincoat while walking in the rain and by the time I got home, my shirt collar was soaked. Turns out the inner coating is deteriorating. Bad news.
Good news: Marmot has a solid warranty policy.
Bad news: despite my obsessive habit of keeping ALL receipts (which came in handy several years ago when the tent we purchased from REI in the early 90s had a broken zipper and REI fixed it at no cost), I have no record of the Marmot raincoat purchase. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Not on paper or electronically.
Good(ish) news: I’ve narrowed down the year of purchase by locating a photo of me wearing said raincoat while camping on June 11, 2019. And while that photo was low-quality, this one was taken at the same time:
State Forest State Park. June 11, 2019. (Photo by Zippy)
I may or may not get my raincoat replaced but, in the meanwhile, can gaze at this lovely image and relive some happy memories.
Update: Bad news…looking for that raincoat photo was too much focusing activity for my eyes and I’m now feeling sick to my stomach. The good news is that despite this setback, I am making progress with my various therapies.
Wordless Wednesday: natural reader
Spotted from South Boulder Creek Trail. March 1, 2022
I receive these gifts
This morning, I ran on the trails for the first time in a while and my heart soared. A Red-winged Blackbird sang its song as I chugged up the first hill, but from then on out it was a magpie-rich experience. They raucously called from trees and flew overhead. One perched on a bush next to the trail and I watched it as I ran closer, regretting that my approach would startle it away. The regal corvid remained there until I was nearly within arm’s reach before flying across the ravine.
Black-billed Magpie out my window. September 1, 2019
Just up the trail and around the corner on the approach to what we call the Bunny Run (because, you know, bunnies frequently seen there), two more magpies perched on either side of the trail, silhouetted against the sky. That sight prompted me to open my arms wide and proclaim out loud, “I receive this. Thank you!” And as I did, another gift appeared.
Photo by Jim Kennedy (Metzger Farm Open Space)
A coyote about 50 feet away, loping through the brush behind one of the magpies. The dark-faced coyote* stopped to watch me. I stopped and watched it, speaking in a low voice. Reassuring it that I came in peace. Then it took off again and I resumed running. When I reached the top of the Bunny Run, I stopped to look back. The coyote had also stopped to watch me. I waved, shouting my thanks and good wishes, and resumed the run with a smile and a little more pep in my step.
Farther up the trail, I saw two people. As I got closer, I realized one was sitting. In a chair? And then I noticed a hawk circling overhead. I watched the hawk as I ran, wondering at the flash of white underneath the wings. And just as it hit me that it wasn’t a hawk, I heard the loud buzzing sound. That non-hawk was a drone. Ugh. No more bird sounds. No more solitude. No more smile on my face.
But after grumpily running past the people and their drone, I reminded myself of all I’d already been gifted. So I less-grumpily continued up to the turnaround point at the top of The Slog (because, you know, never-ending uphill) and did my stretching. Then I raced down toward the people who sent up an even larger and louder drone right as I passed, and focused on the joy of movement. The only thing that mattered was being out on the trails again. Moving. Alive.
Thank you, universe. I receive these gifts.
* my search for images of dark-faced coyotes was unsuccessful
This is a climate emergency!
Another wildfire in Boulder, Colorado.
In March.
Following the Marshall Fire in December.
NCAR Fire on March 26, 2022
Zippy and I were heading out of a very windy Boulder this afternoon when he saw the smoke and exclaimed, “Wildfire!” As I drove, he took the above photo at 2:30 (about 30 minutes after it started.) At times, we could see the bright red-orange flames. As we continued driving south on Highway 93 with our windows rolled up, smoke odors permeated the car. The air was hazy. Our beautiful afternoon was suddenly filled with anxiety.
This was our first time in Boulder since the Marshall Fire and our appointment had taken us past areas devastated by that fire. Blackened trees reaching for the blue sky next to homes that were nothing but smoke-stained brick and concrete foundations. Rubble. We’d gotten emotional at those sights and then, an hour later, saw the smoke of yet another wildfire. It was happening again.
The climate crisis is a collective trauma for everyone, but especially those who just three months ago experienced a wildfire. My heart is with the people of Boulder. I’m not sure what it’s going to take for those in power to make radical changes to avert the worst of what’s to come. So far, the crisis has accelerated to wildfires any time of year.
Lending my voice
These are incredibly hard days on the planet and I’m overwhelmed. But as I revised my middle grade novel this morning, I felt a renewed sense of purpose because this story matters. It’s about community, friendship, mass incarceration, and taking one step forward on the long road to abolition.
This story matters and my voice matters. I cannot crawl into a hole and give up.
March 13, 2022. (Photo by Zippy)
I am on this earth to shine my light and lend my voice to the fight for a better world. This post is a reminder for when I begin to falter again. 💓
Tracy Abell 