Happy May Day!

The pagans timed this holiday well, and in Seattle most everything is blooming or leafing open now.  The rhodies and azaleas splash reds and purples through the neighborhoods, blue bells intersperse in all the grasses along sidewalks and medians, dense constellations of pink dogwood flowers are following the big, white Kousa dogwood blooms.   Salmon berry flowers have taken after the white Indian Plum flower procession and dot the woods in fuscia.   Tulip fields paint rainbows on the country fields up north, and finally the white apple and pear tree blossoms have caught up with the cherry trees.

 These fragrant, sweet smells waft in the morning air beckoning us like street vendors at an open air market.  We celebrate the fertility of spring in many ways, and each day I notice some of the wildlife around me acting in peculiar ways. 

A few days ago, I saw a crow holding some kind of white morsel in his mouth while he was flying over my head among a little gang of crows.  High in the air, he dropped the morsel in flight and did a back flip and deftly caught it again. He appeared so pleased with himself, that he looked left and right afterward as if to see if his friends noticed his stunt.  While flying with this object in his beak, he was so busy looking for his crow friends with turning his head, that he dropped his morsel and had to abandon it in order to stay with his gang.  I could of sworn I saw him grimace.

The next day on my neighborhood walk, I saw another crow hanging upside down by his feet from the power lines with his wings closed and dead still.  Other crows were busy flying around the area and gathering bread crumbs on a sidewalk nearby.   I stopped, horrified that the odd bird was electrocuted and apparently dead and noticed he had a piece of bread still in his mouth.  Perhaps he had been poisoned and dropped dead like that. 

As I approached his hanging body to get a closer look, the crow came to life and dropped the object from his beak, let go of the powerline with his feet and snapped open his wings like a bat.  Like a gymnast, he flipped over airborne while simultaneously catching the object and then flew toward his fellow crows!  The whole time my mouth hung open.  A perfect flip and catch.  I hope his friends saw his cool trick.

Then a strange surprise.  Earlier yesterday morning, on my hunt to find the lone bachelor mallard who has been sleeping in the tiny pool of Thorton Creek, I entered the narrow pathway toward the creek.  The maple and cottonwood trees were half-way leafed out but allowed a view through the woods.  Ahead of me about forty feet off the ground, I noticed two round clumps on a thin branch near a high crook of a spindly, big-leaf maple tree.  At first I thought the tree had an abnormal growth clumps on it.  But a grey color stood out against the mossy bark, and I realized those clumps were animals perched up there.

Not only were the round clumps fastened on a branch not much more than the diameter of broomstick, but their thin perch was directly over the shallow creek below.  It would be a nasty fall to one’s death if those animals lost their balance.  I crept closer.   Their motionless bodies resembled fat Koala bears that passed out miraculously on a tight-rope.  I imagined when they awakened they would have quite a thrill ahead of them getting down. 

The higher one’s bulging belly eclipsed the little branch as well as her feet and somehow balanced with her curled tail underneath.  She was precipitously flopped over the branch like a roasted marshmallow oozing on its stick with her head hanging over in the air.  Her black eye mask revealed her to be an enormous raccoon.  Her companion was a few feet downward on the same branch, with his wide grey back facing me, leaning back and draped into the crook angle of the branch and trunk like a swollen waterballoon.  They both looked as if they were recovering from gorging an entire birthday cake after a big bag of catfood.   The lower racoon definitely had a safer spot with a place to lean his back.   Their disproportioned size and impeccable balance on such a narrow branch reminded me of the vervet monkeys I played with in South Africa.  A vervet would pick a spot just like this that would be too difficult for a big predator to climb and curl up to sleep.   Monkeys, however, were considerably smaller and lighter than these raccoons.

Were they really comfortable there?  Did they get chased up there by a dog and decided to “just make do” with the situation and then fell asleep?  How did they pull themselves up there?

Looking at their cramped positions, I remembered my survival walkabout trip two years ago with a small band of mostly men (one of the instructors was a woman).   We made our own debris huts out of leaves and tree boughs.  The first few nights were really cold and uncomfortable because we didn’t know how to make proper shelter.  I remember lying and not sleeping on pokey tree roots and frosty ground until we learned to value of collecting lots of debris.  It’s amazing how comfortable and warm a good, thick bed of leaves with some windbreak is in contrast to sleeping over a bare knobby tree root.   I admire these raccoons in being comfortable enough anywhere that he or she can sleep soundly on a little dowel. 

            There is a Feldenkrais lesson where you lie on your back on a hard foam roller with your knees bent, much like lying on a log or tree.  Eventually, as you get more adept at balancing and softening your spine, the roller feels comfortable to people.  Some people actually become so at ease, they fall asleep and snore!  After today’s exhibition, I wonder if I need to elevate my Feldenkrais lessons in comfort and balance to greater heights.

            Happy May Day.

("Monkee" (vervet monkey) playing with me in South Africa.)

 (Vervets "helping" me with sweeping chores at the nature preserve in South Africa)

Each morning, I look and listen in my neighborhood for spring developments.  These are some highlights of what I’ve found:

First of all, in the past week or two - if you live in the Northwest, the birds have begun singing their dawn greetings as if finally, the full choir of members has arrived. Some folks in my neighborhood are all a twitter from the arrival of the merlins, (not the Wizards, but the rare kestral birds) who have been spotted mating just blocks from where I live. I saw and heard the pair this morning crying a rapid, high “KeeKeeKeeKeeKee” sound that reminded me of a flicker with a machine gun.  I suppose the little neighboring birds might feel that way about the merlin, too.  The merlins like to roost on top of the 120-foot Douglas fir trees. 

At home, a pair of house finches has built a small, woven nest on top of the clematis vine on our porch, under the eaves with the red headed male finch making frequent trips to the nest.  Our cats take turns standing guard underneath, with rapt eyes as if trying to hypnotize the roosting female to lose her balance or for the male to stumble and fall out into their paws. 

One of my favorite birds, the rufous-sided towhees, have turned up in the neighborhood and are busy in the low-lying bushes.  I saw a surly towhee this morning perched on the side-mirror of a parked volkswagen.  He jumped and pecked wildly at the driver’s window, fighting his own reflection and territory in little fits. 

And perhaps the sweetest sight for me this week has been watching a bachelor mallard duck in Thorton Creek, all alone, swimming and clucking by himself in a 10-foot pool along the narrow stream, sometimes sleeping on water-worn stump in the middle of the stream.  I’d been wondering all week how a big duck like him could maneuver into such a tight spot flanked by tall trees and brush on either side with only a narrow opening.  This morning, I saw him soaring over the treetops toward the creek, then tottering through towering big leaf maples and cottonwoods like a plane that’s lost its engine and then swerve precipitously down into such a dense forest.  If I were on his back, I would have closed my eyes and tore a few feathers off his back with that descent.  After seeing his flight, I’m convinced that mallard must be a goofy teenager.  I'm wondering how he'll do with courting and hope he's thought of a more accessible spot to woo the lady mallards.

Spring is a time where so much of the world around us is waking up.  I find that the dreams we’ve had over the past seasons can now begin their budding. Though, some seeds can lie dormant for many years before the right spring comes along. If we look around, spring's arousal from the long winter can inspire us to appreciate the new life, new cycles, new opportunities that nature reminds through the songs of the birds and the sweet and pungent scents of the flowers.  Spring is our alarm clock to attend this season’s crop.  Whether you know it or not, you’ve been dreaming of things you’d like to do, to know and to receive.  The seeds of your dreams are sprouting, and now you can watch and tend this garden of yours.

In my work with the Feldenkrais Method, the awareness you bring to your life will amplify whatever you are paying to attention to. 

Human beings have a tremendous gift of awareness and of creativity with our art, technology and society.  We can heal and we can destroy life.  The gift each of has is our attention.  How we listen.  How we sense and feel.  How we look at the world and ourselves.  Spring is the time to wake up: hear, smell, look, feel the life around you stirring. 

This week in particular, I’ve noticed the return of more insects and bugs that are flying and crawling everywhere.  The insects, after a long, cold sleep are hatching and as the Native Americans say, “they are following their original instructions.”  They are tending to the flowers, trees, and waters. More and more flower and leaf buds emerge from their long wait, like party guests being announced at a gala ball. Swollen tulips are relieved to finally take off their green cloaks and reveal yellow and red dazzling dresses.  The streets and windshields of cars are covered in golden dust from thousands of catkin flowers in the trees.  There is so much for us to notice and the insects can help us pay attention.

The reflection of what you notice often reveals what your own state of mind and condition.  The more you hear the alarm clock of spring, rise and greet the world, the more you may remember and find what you were dreaming about. 

While I’m sure there are many wise elders who can answer the question of “What are the original instructions for the human being?”  The answer I’ve heard lately from my clients surprises and fills me with joy:

Gratitude.

Happy Spring!