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

to everything there is a season

Eden: What are you doing, Mommy?

Me: Pulling out a white hair.

Eden: Oh. So that you won't look exactly like Daddy?

Me: Right.

Seriously, winter. What kind of weather is this? What season is this? 

Just brown with a touch of grey-white. Just like me.

what I didn't have time for

As a writing deadline approaches (9:00 am Jan. 30), I start to get antsy and protective of my time. I think I don't have time for some things. Because I'm notorious for under-guessing how long something will take me.

Yesterday afternoon, as I thought about all I had yet to do, here's what I didn't have time for:

Hopping on the wagon,
chains on wheels,
skates on feet,
dog on laps,
snow on tongues
for the trek back to the swamp in the gravel pit.

Metal blades on light snow,
the air fresh
the water frozen under our feet,
shimmery
shiny
snowy
bumpy ripples from last week's rain

I remember this feeling.
the magic of walking on water
wondering what's underneath
when will I fall through (and I did)
and the wet walk home
laughing
shivering
and of course the hot chocolate
and crackling fire

the pirouettes
figure eights
sudden stops
the falls

snow falling softly
slowly
no line where land meets sky

the scrape of plastic, clearing a path
the rhythmic song of metal to ice
swish, swish, swish,

weaving between bullrushes
giggling
barking
blades on ice
falling down
like snow
this dance
this ballet of learning to skate
accepting each fall

peek at my watch
we must go
yet this --
this is not wasted time
to stand beneath winter sky
on frozen pond
and delight