....familiar

Yogis,
I have several birdhouses scattered around the yard, but one location has always been the fan favorite. At first it was a simple yellow one built by my neighbor that was attached to one of the pillars that holds up the deck. A busy spot close to my garden and right above the hose spigot.

For years it was the wrens that set up house there. Waking me on spring mornings with full throated songs through my open window overlooking the deck. Then four years ago it was discovered by bluebirds. Home ownership changed.

Eventually the yellow house became rickety, so I replaced it with a natural wood one designed for bluebirds. Many families have called it home.

Fast forward to this spring…… I can tell there is activity but I never see the bird. I peek in and find a charming nest. Perfectly shaped and adorned with moss and feathers. A chickadee nest! A first for my yard.

Eggs and babies ensued, and the parents finally learned to trust me as I worked close by. A different look with different sounds and relationships. This week they fledged, leaving an empty house.

Well, the bluebirds didn’t waste any time! Within hours they were busy. Cleaning and sprucing and they moved in that night. I laughed. It seemed like they had missed their opportunity the first go round and were determined not to make that mistake again!

They are now settled back in and egg laying has begun. Dad being so vigilant as he stands guard at nearby spots and reminding me when the bird feeder is running low. Fluttering his wings when I talk to him and occasionally sticking his head in the house to check on the mom. The familiar has returned.

A flash of blue streaks past my window whenever I look out.

I loved experiencing the chickadees. Something new. I am grateful they chose our house. Yet there is something very comfortable in having familiar yearly experiences that sweep me into the rhythm of nature and show me my place within it all.

Welcome back,
SARAH 

....nuclear family

Yogis,
I am acutely aware of how lucky I am to have spent Mother’s Day with my mom. First, to be sixty-three and still have my mom. Then, to have it work out that my sister and I (with our respective husbands) could spend the whole weekend with our mom and dad at the beach. All of us in one house….alone. We can’t remember the last time that happened.

Our nuclear family, as my mom kept reminding us.

As one would expect, the weekend was filled with stories, memories and lots of laughter. Recounting different places we lived and trying to remember names of funny distant relatives with whom we have lost touch. Working on the NYT crossword puzzle, several great meals and enjoying great people watching from a bench on the boardwalk. A bucket of Thrasher’s fries in between us of course.

My mom mentioned a mug we got her about twenty years ago which has a picture of her sitting in my living room chair, my sister and I awkwardly on the floor in front of her. All of us looking just a bit ‘off’.

It was an annual tradition. A picture taken of the three of us right before we headed out to lunch the day after Christmas. Always an odd looking picture. We have had many laughs over them across the years, but somehow we fell out of the tradition. My mom asked that we recreate it for a new mug.

After breakfast we set it up. Picked the right chair, assumed our positions and asked the men to take pictures. Twenty pictures later we were finally forced to settle on one. My mom does not believe it is mug worthy. We all look a little ‘off’. So perhaps it is perfect.

Fifteen minutes later, my dad decided he needed one with his son-in-laws. So back to the chair we went. Lots of cracking joints while getting ready.  A new tradition?

Without a mother, none of us would be here.

Happy Mother’s Day everyone,
SARAH

....soul

Yogis,
What is the definition of ‘soul’?  Oxford defines it as the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal.  Merriam adds in all rational and spiritual beings and that it is the animating principle of an individual life.

So, can a house have a soul? Does a house have an individual life?

I have always loved old houses. Their sturdy bones, natural materials and everlasting character. The houses we have bought have all been old, with the oldest being our beach house. She was built in 1927, at least according to the city records when we ordered a historical plaque.

She has old pine floors, a brick fireplace and of course, tiny closets. And she has a lot of history. If only the walls could talk……

Starting life as a cape cod with a wood front screened porch, in the 1970s the second level was dormered out for bedrooms and she was wrapped with white metal siding. She became ours in 2002.

In 2016 we decided she would look much better in sage green Hardie plank (to blend with the ever present mildew and moss on her walls). In the process an old medicine chest was uncovered containing a women’s powder compact with large brush, a glass bottle and metal tin for snuff. The walls were talking.

Then just last week the foreman sent me a text with a picture. In removing part of a wall he uncovered handwriting. It said ‘Mr Robert Phillips of Rehoboth Beach DE done this in the year of 1927’.  I have research to do. The walls were talking louder.

We are now chest deep in the remodeling project. Every time we visit I find time to be inside alone To wander. Feel. Listen. She is my best guide for decisions when I feel overwhelmed.

Is it her soul that speaks to me? Or perhaps a small piece of each of the soul’s who were lucky enough to spend part of life within her walls?

Whatever it is, we have a relationship, and each time I leave I tell her how beautiful she is and that I will be back soon. Out loud.

Getting her ready for her 100th,
SARAH

....critters

Yogis,
It all began with a box turtle…..

The type with yellow markings that I often kept hostage in a box when I was young. My pet, if only for a weekend. Providing a lid filled with water and leafy greens while their pointy nails and heavy bodies made them anything but quiet.

Someone posted they had seen one. I will look when I get home! Quickly forgetting all about turtles I began weeding, only to find I am being watched by one. As a family we always call them Myrtle. This time I left her free and watched the different ways she buried herself in pine needles.

Early the next morning something caught my eye at the far end of our porch. A bird? Nope. A small raccoon who evidently had climbed up to snatch sparrow eggs from the birdhouse but couldn’t quite figure out how to get down. Some coaxing and an offer of a broom scared him enough to risk the slide down the downspout.

Shortly after I ran past a wild turkey. What the heck? I have never seen a wild turkey in our neighborhood. Standing alone in my neighbor’s yard eating something in the grass. Not a care in the world. Huh.

Later Phoebe is barking at the car and climbing into the wheel well. Uh, oh…. We pop the hood to see what was going on and the raccoon was just as surprised to see us as we were him. Yikes! He nestled in deeper so I called animal control and soon he was out and finally headed back to the woods.

I read a book on frogs to the kindergartener I tutor. I told him I find them in my garden. Of course, that afternoon I almost stepped on one. Telling these stories in class I commented that I could feel a snake would be soon. Next morning reaching under grasses to remove chickweed, I scare a snake, and therefore me. He slithered in further and I decided I was good on the weeds.

Earthworms, first butterfly, the carpenter bee who guards.

There are so many things I love about spring! One is reconnecting with all the critters.

I missed you all,
SARAH

....rocks

Yogis,
His five-year-old grandson was with him for the day. Adorable and bursting with little boy energy. I asked what his grandson likes to do and he told me he was always trying to bring rocks in the house.

‘That’s great!’ I exclaimed. Not the answer he expected……

It’s that time of year again when we shift clothing. Down coat moves to spring jacket. Thick  jeans begin to transition to cuter lightweight pants. Inevitably during this time my hand will enter a pocket and bump into a rock. Pulling it out I often remember exactly where I picked it up. It sat waiting in the closet for months to be rediscovered. Rocks are patient.

I have rocks everywhere!

Some on my altar. A few on kitchen counters. On a shelf in my closet, on end tables and on many window ledges. Even on the dining room table. All of them rocks that one day caught my eye, ended up in a pocket and then found their place in my home. Rocks make a home more grounded.

I’m talking everyday rocks here. Not crystals…..although I have plenty of those as well. Rocks found on the beach, in the woods and along streets across many years. There are so many kinds! And if you have a couple in your pocket they make a pretty clicking sound when you roll them about. Rocks are long lasting.

I have inside and outside rocks. The ones I place in the garden are used as a focal point. A change of texture from the softness of plants. They are also fantastic holders of garden tools and when big enough are a great perch for me to rest and admire my work. Rocks are dependable and sturdy.

I photograph rocks. A lot.

Imagine my delight when I learned a new fact. There are many reasons I love otters, but did you know that they have a pocket in their skin? They use it to keep food while diving, but also their favorite rock. A special rock used for opening shellfish. Rocks are helpful.

Rocks carry many qualities I want to instill in my life.

Do you have a favorite rock?

Rocks are quiet and still,
SARAH

....the birds & the bees, and a goose

Yogis,
I’ve seen many geese in my life, yet I can’t say I have really gotten to know any. I admit I’m a bit afraid. When a goose is not happy, they let you know.

I have several memories of being confronted and I was always the one who backed down. The way they hiss and charge with wings wide is not to be taken lightly. One even bit my young son’s butt one spring day.

Yet last weekend I felt closer to geese.

It began with spotting a goose sitting on what we determined to be a nest, feet from the door of our friend’s house. A circular mound of pine needles, leaves and feathers against the trunk of a holly tree at the lake’s edge. An ideal spot. Dad floating feet away.

As she stood to turn, we saw the eggs. She threw things out of the nest. Pulled in new needles and re-fluffed the area. A gentle roll of the eggs. Housekeeping. Attentive mother.

She then lifted her back tail, curved her wings back and placed her wide warm belly down on the eggs, rocking from side to side until she was firmly nestled deep in the nest. A cool breeze blew overhead.

We read she will sit on the eggs for at least 28 days, leaving only occasionally for food, water and to bathe. The father rarely sits on the eggs. Yet we witnessed how he takes his role as protector quite seriously.

We checked on them all weekend. Once I found that neither were at the nest and I couldn’t see the eggs. We ventured out to get closer. I saw them first….mom and dad taking off from upstream, bee-lining toward us with much to say. ‘Run’ I yelled as old memories returned.

We realized she buries the eggs beneath feathers when she ventures out….but never takes her eyes off them. And as dawn broke, she was sleeping soundly with her head under her wing while Dad stood tall a foot away.

I realized how the qualities of attentiveness, nurturing and protection are innate. In all of us. Even a goose. But where do they come from? What is the source?

Always amazed,
SARAH

.....doing something

Yogis,
When I am at my parent’s house, I help in the yard. Picking up sticks blown down by wind in winter. In spring my dad and I head to the nursery to pick out new plants which I get settled in the ground before leaving. Weeding the herb garden in summer. But probably most importantly, removing ivy from trees.

This is my annual public service announcement.

Their house is surrounded by big old oaks, pines and maples, all there much longer than the 44 years my family has lived among them. Towering over the house providing shade, cleaner air and beauty. Ivy, though, has managed to snake up many of the trunks, threatening to bring them down.

Last weekend we tackled two more trees. Stately pines in the side yard.

Removing ivy from a tree is not nearly as hard as it might seem. With clippers for small vines and a hand saw for roots thickened with age, a tree’s life can be saved in less than an hour.

Ivy should be cut close to the ground and then again about knee height, with only that section removed. Everything above will quickly begin to die back.

I heard yesterday that federal funding for tree planting across our country has been dramatically reduced (if not eliminated). That makes saving our current trees even more critical.

In a world where everything feels overwhelming, there is always something we can do to make a difference. Saving a tree is a perfect example. With only a little effort, the tree will appear to stand taller and thank you. Every time you pass you will know you did something good.

This is the time of year to tackle the job. With bare trees ivy is easy to see and the brush hasn’t thickened yet. And no poison ivy!

Start with your yard, but you can do this for trees along streets or in your parks. Unfortunately, there is no magic ivy fairy. If everyone who reads this saves even one tree, that would be a couple hundred!

Heading out to do something for the Sycamore at the bottom of my street,
SARAH