Reading the Leaves Once More

The gazing bowl has become an autumn tradition now.

During the summer it’s the dog’s outdoor water bowl and gets refilled every day. It’s a nice bowl, but  of little interest to anyone but Geordie — until the leaves begin to float down from the trees.

Once that time arrives, I allow it to fulfil its true destiny.

One day a utilitarian dog bowl; the next, a kaleidoscope of wonders.

Starting in late October (the dog is usually doing most of his drinking in the house by this time) I stop changing the water and just let the leaves and seeds fall and gather in the bowl. Some float. Some sink. The colours and composition change hourly depending on the weather, the light, and which leaves have most recently fallen.

I make visits to the gazing bowl many times a day — returning from dog walks, putting out the compost, walking back and forth from the studio. When I need something calming (more and more these days, it seems) I go outside just to lose myself in it for a few minutes.

It’s especially mesmerizing in the rain …

 

And, while I’m there, I always like to try my hand at “reading the leaves” — just in case I’ve managed to develop psychic abilities since last year. So far, no luck.

In fact, I generally come away with questions after letting my mind wander with the leaves and the reflections.

I wonder how soon it will be before we live in Meta world, with meta gazing bowls and meta outdoors, and real nature a privilege only for the very wealthy. I wonder if I should delete my Facebook account.

Will the COP26 Glasgow meeting make enough of a difference? I wonder if there are enough politicians brave enough to do what needs to be done.

I wonder if the trees that were meant to replace the Notre Dame poplars will ever be planted. I miss their little heart shaped leaves in the gazing bowl.

I wonder if the fritillaria meleagris bulbs I’ve just planted will bear flowers next spring. I’ve lost count of how many of these bulbs I’ve planted in the garden over the last 30 years, with very sparse results. But hope springs eternal and I like to imagine them biding their time in the soil, under their blanket of leaves, gathering strength for a spectacular showing next spring.

I’m not sure what Geordie wonders while I’m doing my gazing.

Will she or won’t she throw a tennis ball for me?
Are all humans this odd, or just mine?
Is it nearly dinner time?

 

 

 

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Spring Garden Notes for Sanity

I realize that I’m incredibly lucky to have a garden I can escape into, even if we’re confined to home.

It’s like having a cabin with an outside deck on the cruise ship of pandemic life.

The least I can do, in gratitude for my good fortune, is to share some of the things going on out there.

I hope to be posting every other day, about birds, or crows, or ravens . . . but some days  I (like many of you) feel just a bit too discombobulated to construct a sentence, so bear with me if there are gaps.

Newly returned pine siskin enjoying the bird bath.

Now that it’s officially spring, I took the bold move of finally removing the bird bath heater. Call me crazy! We may even go hog wild and get the small fountain out of winter mothballs too.

I keep thinking that the Steller’s Jays have moved on permanently, but then, when I’m reconciled to their absence, back they come. It’s not hard to know when they’ve arrived, what with the shrieking calls and flashes of electric blue — my cue to stop listening to the radio and rush outside and enjoy them before they move on again.

The finches, House and Gold, are providing a more melodic garden sound track with an almost constant chorus of song.

Mr and Mrs House Finch

The bushtits are back, but often in groups of only two, now that nesting season has arrived.

Female bushtit with her pale gold eyes.

And those bushtits are still using their clever little claws for holding their food like a the world’s smallest burrito.

I have been doing my Feederwatch bird count each week, even though sometimes it’s hard to settle down and do it. I have to say, I highly recommend it as a mental health strategy. Even if you don’t have a garden, you just need to pick a spot with some birds (even if it’s just a few crows or pigeons), register, and do a count when you feel like it. It doesn’t have to be every week — just when you can.

Often when I go out there to count it’s as if the birds know and they all scarper.

But I’ve learned that if you are quiet enough and just sit for a few minutes, you will find that there’s always a bird somewhere out there.

Often it’s just one modest brown song sparrow scuffling ever so softly through the shadowy leaf litter.

Or a finch, outlined against the sun on a high branch, gathering a long breath for the next musical recitation.

I suspect there may be a metaphor to be sifted out of that word litter  . . .

Song sparrow tightrope walking on the Daphne Odora

To close, I’d like to thank you all for reading my blog, and sometimes writing to let me know it helps a bit.

The fact is that writing the blog helps me a lot too, by giving me something positive to focus on at this crazy time.

So, thanks and stay well, be kind to each other. And to the birds, of course.