holding the wild: chickadee magic

I have found my new winter love (thanks to a dear friend): feeding chickadees from the palms of our hands. For several summers now, we have loved finding monarch caterpillars and watching them transform to butterflies. Well, this is our way to connect with nature's wild in the cold of winter.

I had heard about this before, but this was my first time doing it: standing frozen still, waiting for a chickadee to bravely land on my hand to feast on seeds.

It was magical. Eden stood with her eyes closed, waiting for a bird to come. I asked her later why she did this. She said, "I was trying to be a tree." Her patience amazed me - hand stretched out, eyes closed. Then when a little bird would come, a smile would creep across that closed-eye face.

Zoe found a quiet place among the trees to stand and wait.

Don't let me fool you, though. These photos do not tell the whole story. They make it look like there was just beauty and magic. But there was wildness too, and not in the nice sense. In the siblings fighting sense. Like "it's MY turn now!" or "You already had one, go over there so that I can get one!" or "I got 8. How many did YOU get?"

Do you see the jealousy in her eyes? It's there.

But what a privilege: to hold the wild, if only for a moment.

chickadee dee dee from Rebecca Seiling on Vimeo.

Song: "Littlest Birds" by The Be Good Tanyas

song for autumn

Song for Autumn by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
    don't you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
    the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
    freshets of wind?

And don't you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
    warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep inside their bodies?


And don't you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
    the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow?




The pond
    vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
    its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
    the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

Tortellini

I'm still on the topic of the weekend fair. We enjoyed so much about that day, but the best part about going to the fair was that we found a baby turtle and named it Tortellini.

This baby painted turtle was adorable. I'd never seen one so small - about two inches in diameter. We found it on the gravel near the bleachers after the horse show. No water in sight, and lots of big feet everywhere.

Eden picked it up and cared for that little thing like her life depended on it. She carried it around - bringing it on the ferris wheel and carefully cradling it as she walked around the fair. She plopped it down beside her for the demolition derby.

The man at the reptile tent (yes! There was a reptile tent!) told us to bring it to some freshwater - a shallow creek or a pond - within the next week.

So the next day, Eden bravely released the turtle at my aunt and uncle's pond after our Thanksgiving meal. And could it ever swim! It was so wonderful to watch.

We a created a little movie last night to remember sweet little Tortellini (for short: Tort). Because releasing is hard, but the memory is sweet.

For short, Tort from Rebecca Seiling on Vimeo.

spinning a web

I just have to say more about this spider I watched during my walk on Monday. And what that spider is teaching me. Crazy, eh?

Can you see the spider in the middle of the photo, and the web strings around it?

It rained really hard on Monday night, and in the morning, I wondered what happened to that little web. Because it's so fragile. I love storms when I'm cozy inside my home, but when I'm driving or walking? Not so much. 

I'm sure that webhome would have been damaged from the wind and rain, if not obliterated altogether. But was that spider worried? I'd like to think not. I imagine she'd had a nice insect supper, and took shelter under some leaves for the night. Then in the morning, when the sun came out, perhaps she started all over again, unperturbed that her work had been destroyed. Spinning because that's just what she does. Because it's her sustenance. It's her purpose. And how does she walk around on that thing without stumbling and falling through? Instinctively, she knows how to build. And then she just keeps going, one step at a time. 

This is what I want. To know that each day I have all I need to survive, and even to thrive. To swing and sway with the wind, take shelter during the storms, then start all over again, repairing, creating, weaving. And then take one step at a time. And then suck the blood out of anything that bugs me. Just kidding on that last part. 

glimpses of fall

I do love fall. The crisp mornings, the warm sun, and the colour. I think it's my favourite time of year to go for a walk.

So yesterday I went to one of my favourite walking spots - where I remember walking with my grandparents - the Mill Race in St. Jacobs. Feels like a little bit of home to me.

This little muskrat was my traveling companion for a piece of the walk - him swimming, me walking. He didn't seem to mind my presence, and I was delighted by his. I could walk at a comfortable pace, keeping stride with his little legs in the water.

stopping to wash his face and paws

busy Mrs. Spider

It honestly makes me catch my breath - all of this changing and beauty around me. And to watch this spider spinning this delicate web it makes me think that all of my September spinning that has seemed futile and fragile might actually be worthwhile and even beautiful.

shades of darkness

I was hanging out with a wonderful 2 year old the other evening. We were walking down the street, and he was talking about the different shades of darkness. He had a name for each shade. The only one I can remember is "gala dark" which was the blackest dark. There was a purple shade of dark, a pink shade, and a blue shade, and possibly more shades that I'm forgetting.

I was floored that this little one could distinguish between these shades in the evening and night sky, and that he had the idea to name them.

My sister and I took a photography course several years ago where we learned to develop photos in a darkroom. There is something terribly magical about playing with light and watching a photo appear in the dark, right before your eyes in the developing solution. Experimenting with timing and exposure to light can drastically change a photo - the contrast between light and dark, and the shades of each one.

Today I heard two verses that talked about darkness. "If I say, 'Surely the darkness shall cover me, and the light around me become night,' even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is as bright as the day, for darkness is as light to you." Psalm 139:11-12

I sometimes think in these terms: darkness = bad, light = good. But this little guy had me appreciating the darkness. And I wondered - where do people get a fear of the dark? Because it really is beautiful. And restful. And now I'll notice that there are many shades. Wonderful when 2 year olds can be our teachers.

beautiful creatures in the dark depths of the ocean

taking flight

There is something about butterflies starting their long migration to Mexico and my youngest daughter going to Kindergarten that connect for me.

When we released our 3 butterflies this year, there was a mix of joy and sadness and great hope. And a prayer. Because Mexico's a long way off. A lot could happen on that journey.

And then I look at Eden. Her road ahead is unknown too, but these first days in a new school feel very big and daunting and there are some tears.

Release. And flight. And the journey ahead.

I send Eden off, knowing that this is just a tiny part of her journey - one that will hopefully be long and successful. God willing. Some days I pretend to squish her down to baby size so that she won't grow any bigger. But I can't shrink her, or stunt her growth, any more than I can stuff that butterfly back into its broken chrysalis.

Whenever I see a monarch these days, I say a little prayer. For my hands to open in release, and not hold onto what was. For a safe journey. For courage to face the unknown. And for her to always know where home is, and migrate back sooner than I even realize.

emerging

emerging from Rebecca Seiling on Vimeo.

One year of life is worth more than twenty years of hibernation. - Anthony de Mello

a pile of goo with new possibilities

While we've been learning about butterflies, I came across something interesting. In the chrysalis, the caterpillar becomes a pile of goo where “imaginal cells” start to appear. At first, the old caterpillar kills them off. But these clumps of imaginal cells keep forming, and eventually reach a critical mass so that they change the destiny of the caterpillar. A new consciousness being born...

a caterpillar transforming into a chrysalis

see the wings? getting ready to emerge

I’d like to think that each year I go through a cocooning stage, where I will be emerging as something new, but that TOGETHER with others we can be something new too - clustering to form a critical mass of imaginal cells. As I think ahead to September, I imagine the newness that may come - new projects, new routines, new beginnings. September feels way more like New Year's to me than January 1st does. Having been a student or a teacher for most of my life, that rhythm of beginning anew in September is just stuck in my brain. 

Sometimes I'm tempted to make a go of things by myself, not remembering that I can trust others to cluster around me - like these imaginal cells do. I am truly grateful to cluster with other “imaginal cells” and really BE the change - to tip that scale from the old caterpillar to the new butterfly being formed. 

If we see ourselves as imaginal discs working to build the butterfly of a better world, we will understand that we are launching a new ‘genome’ of values and practices to replace that of the current unsustainable system. We will also see how important it is to link with each other in the effort, to recognize how many different kinds of imaginal cells it will take to build a butterfly with all its capabilities and colors.

– Elisabet Sahtouris, Ph.D., evolution biologist, lecturer and author of EarthDance: Living Systems in Evolution

So that’s me, or what I strive to be: a pile of goo with new possibilities, clustering with others to change. Care to jump in the goo too?

holding seeds like prayer beads

As we were planting small rows in our backyard, I thought about the way of seeds.

The way a small wonder is contained inside, ready to explode into plant and fruit and seed.

The way the earth envelopes a seed and encourages it to thrive.

The way the wind blows and seeds scatter - planting themselves. Effortlessly.

The way my body has grown a seed into a beautiful baby. Seeds became prayers became girls.

And the way of these children - holding seeds like prayer beads. Planting. Daring hope to live and breathe, push out of the ground, grow and produce.

The farm-girl part of me knows that these are my prayer beads - each one planted with a prayer for rain and sun and growth and sustenance. The rhythm of planting: Plant a seed. Pray. Plant a seed. Pray. Cover with soil. Water. Hope.

I learned something interesting about beads: that the word "bead" comes from the Anglo-Saxon words bidden (to pray) and bede (prayer). Strings of beads are used in many religions - Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism - to centre the mind and to pray.

So these seed beads help me to be centred and think of the bigger picture. Besides these little spiritual connections, it's just fun to dig in the dirt and get hands dirty. Don't you agree? Is planting a spiritual activity for you?

Some of my favourite poetry and stories have to do with planting seeds. Like this one:

Sowing Clover by Wendell Berry (in Selected Poems of Wendell Berry)

February 2, 1968
In the dark of the moon, in flying snow, in the dead of winter,
war spreading, families dying, the world in danger,
I walk the rocky hillside, sowing clover.

Or this quotation, from Henry David Thoreau's Faith in a Seed:

Though I do not believe that a plant will spring up where no seed has been, I have great faith in a seed. Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.

And this children's book: Miss Rumphius, by Barbara Cooney, who scatters lupin flower seeds all around her town and on hillsides. Her grandfather had told her,

"You must do something to make the world more beautiful."

This is something I learned from my grandparents: to plant, to tend, and to rejoice in the harvest. And to live my faith in simple ways like planting seeds and praying. Now if only I had a greener thumb.

every day growth

Spring always surprises me: the flowers thrusting out of still-cool soil to smile at the sun, sap rushing up the trees to turn small, hard brown buds into delicate green leaves.

Every year it seems to go from bud to leaf so quickly - it's as if I can watch the tree change every day. So this year I wanted to capture it. I took a photo of our backyard maple every day from April 28 onwards. And this is what happened:

Measurable, every day growth.

And I wanted that for myself. Do you too?

Cycles of rest followed by unbelievable growth. Remembering each year what it's like to grow, then then just instinctively doing it. No fear, no comparing myself with others' growth, just doing it because it's the right season.

I know there are scientific explanations for the growth and the timing of this growth, but I'd rather see it as a small miracle.

I wonder whether the tree reluctantly gives up its leaves in the fall to be still and asleep for months, knowing that a period of growth will come again, or if there is reluctance at each stage - including the growth.

As nature wakes up from its slumber and drinks this potent elixir of spring, I can easily imagine it has human qualities - and that sights such as singing and dancing trees are entirely possible. Sounds crazy, but this is where my imagination goes, especially in the spring. Maybe yours does too! Like in this verse:

"For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands." Isaiah 55:12

I'd like to measure the expansion of my soul. Just to see if there's been any change. Whether there is every day growth - small signs that parts of me are bursting forth and expanding. But the hard thing about measurement is that I may just fear that I'm not enough - that I'm not growing enough, not stretching enough, not enough. Which isn't a great place to be.

So I want to be like the trees with their every day growth and seasons of rest, all the while leaning in to the grace that's out there for me to grab onto. Every day, grace-filled growth and rest.

creation cruelty??

We spent a wonderful few hours at the Waterloo Earth Day celebrations today. Lovely day, perfect weather for planting trees, holding snakes, watching owls and falcons, building birdhouses, eating hotdogs. It was terrific.

There was, however, a moment that totally caught me off guard. Eden was making a cool bookmark craft. There was a piece of fabric set on the table. She was told to put violet and forsythia flowers onto the fabric, cover them with waxed paper, then hammer the heck out of them. Here's what it looked like when she was done:

Neat, eh? I'd never seen this craft before. The colours from the flowers and leaves are dyed onto the fabric in neat designs. She was proud, and so was the 3 year old hammering next to her. The 3 year old's mother, on the other hand, was a different story. Here's how that story went:

3 year old: (hammering away at the flowers, but the waxed paper keeps slipping away on her)
Craft leader to 3 year old's mom: Do you mind just holding the waxed paper for her?
3 year old's mom: No, I can't.
3 year old: (continues to hammer away, waxed paper continues to slide)
Craft leader to 3 year old's mom: Do you mind helping? If you just hold the paper for her, it'd be much easier.
3 year old's mom: No, I'm actually against this activity. I don't think it's nature friendly. I think it's actually quite cruel.

The 3 year old finished her craft and showed it proudly to her mom. Her mom said, "Hm."

I looked down at the mom's leather shoes. And the plastic container of Huggies disposable wipes in her hand. And the juice box in her other hand. And wondered about the rest of her wardrobe, and the rest of her life. If this craft is considered cruelty, what else was I doing on a daily basis that could fit into this cruel category?

A few things came to mind quite quickly:

1. We drive a car at least once a day. This qualifies as cruelty to all of creation because of the fumes and the use of a non-renewable resource.
2. I wear leather shoes. No idea how those cows were treated, or how environmentally friendly the chemicals used in dying the leather or creating the rubber soles were.
3. I kill mosquitoes any chance I can get. Ants on the counter top? Them too.
4. I loathe mice. If I found one in our house, I would find a way to do away with it.
5. I eat vegetables. Is that being cruel to the vegetable to eat it?
6. I eat meat. Obviously cruel.

Where does the cruel line start and where does it end? Seems like a pretty sad life, to see a flower craft as cruel. But maybe I'm wrong. When I think about an average day, I can list more things that are creation cruel than creation care.

What do you see as creation cruelty? Have you changed anything about your lifestyle to care for creation in better ways?