Mental health with feathers

Woodpecker

Hope is the thing with feathers, according to Emily Dickinson.  A good walk with birds is the thing for my mental outlook. So much to do at home, but the dark rainy morning had changed to a gorgeous sunny afternoon. The sunshine grasped me in her talons and dragged me through the bright blue sky to the trailhead at Renner Road and US 75.

Mockingbird, juvenile.

Greeted by a woodpecker. Under the watch of a kestrel. A red tail hawk circled overhead. A mockingbird posed. Mallards bickered and bullied in Spring Creek under the highway.

Bad boy mallards

Kestrel photo good enough for an ID.

Odd, loud, buzzy, rattled bird calls tantalized me as I got closer to the US 75/190 George Bush tollway interchange.

Kingfishers avoid paparazzi

The buzzy calls led to a pair of kingfishers on a telephone wire above the creek, but under the highways. No mistaking the shape of the kingfishers, or the glorious blue when they swooped along the creek declining to be photographed by the paparazzi.

Teeny brown birds in a budding tree consented to photos but declined to be identified. On the way back I spotted a heron looking scruffy near a heap of trashed grocery carts.




Something was bothering me earlier.  I wonder what it was... besides the ugly grocery carts.




© 2013 Nancy L. Ruder

The world would beat a path to my door

...if I could only invent a childproof glue-stick for use by preschoolers! Kids can't open brand new glue-sticks. Once opened, kids can instantly twist the glue up out of the tube until it

1. falls completely out of the glue-stick tube
2. can be mashed down by putting the lid back on the tube
3. can be used as pretend lipstick
4. can be schmushed onto the paper
5. can be schmeared on the wrong side of the paper
6. can be used like a crayon to coat the paper
7. can stick to your underarm
8. can roll away under the table and then be stepped on

On a happier note, the weather is cooler and I'm back out on the paths and trails many days after school for mental health and exercise. It's been a fine week for fritillary finds, but yesterday it was the hawk that made my day. I hadn't been on the trail that goes under the overpass for a long time, as there's almost no shade.

The hawk was busy catching supper as the trucks roared by. It flew right across my trail while I fumbled my camera.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Thanks for all the frass

Whole lotta action on the patio!  It's a three-ring circus worthy of Sneelock, my spiritual advisor.


And just by the way of the way I'm okay today I say I'm very grateful for:

Play

And also:


To Dr. Seuss for the words and pictures.
To Dave Brubeck for the music.
To Cliff Hillegass for the roses, 
and Jerry Garcia for the rainbows.




To Ms. Janie and the other Ms. Janie for curiosity and compassion.
To the Woolly Mammoth for the macro world of digital photography.
To owls of Omaha, red-tailed hawks of Oklahoma, and the Allman Brothers for saving my life more than once.

To Gail Butt for rich, bright, and delicate.


To Dale and Norma for screened porch serenity, rope swing risk, sandbar simplicity, and fishing bobber patience.
To Bernd Heinrich and John Janovy for cosmic biology.
To Fritzi for the curse and gift of perfectionism.
To hummingbirds and anoles for joy.

This little anole is about 1/4 the size of that Giant Swallowtail caterpillar.  It is hopping from one mint leaf to the next, making the patio a tiny popcorn popper.





To Aunt Em for cursive perseverance.
To Coach for the opera backstage.
To Maurice Sendak and Pierre for care.
To Ms. Heather for wisdom and basil.
To Howie for graph paper and blue prints.


To all the red wiggler worms named Dave for taking it below ground.
To Juliet for being my artistic muse, O These Many Years.
To the Buick Skylark for hanging in there for 175,000 miles as my alter ego. I'd like to think it will emerge soon from its chrysalis transformed just like the caterpillars.

In all the whole world the most wonderful spot is right behind where you are in the big vacant lot. Clean up the cans!


It's a Barnum and Bailey world.  Grab onto the trapeze.




© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder


So long, and thanks for all the frass.

Twilight Zone on the playground

Yes, this cicada tried to fly off with our picnic table.




















b

Two rowdy hawks have been perching on the telephone poles near the playground for three days.  They screech loudly, and sometimes fly off together.  A third hawk appears sometimes looking rather ruffed up or ruffled.  We don't understand the avian soap opera.  We need subtitles.

But what really knocked me out was your cheap sunglasses.






© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Lavender pandas, Part II : Spirit guides

I really needed a walk before I visited Dad after school Friday.  A curve of the trail focused my attention on a red-shouldered hawk sitting on a low branch.  It sat and watched me as I tried to figure out the digital zoom feature on my camera.

Kept walking to the turn-around and headed back.  The hawk was still sitting there and willing to pose for photos until I took three steps off the trail toward it.  Then it flew to another low branch, still close to the trail.  Again we played photo op.  Again I took three steps from the trail, and the hawk flew.

From its third perch the hawk waited patiently while I walked to the trail junction and followed a new trail.  We played the three step game, and the hawk flew, but to a tree I couldn't reach.  I had to let go of the connection, but the feeling lingered that this had been an OTHER experience.  If you look between the tree limbs you can see the hawk flying away in the late afternoon sunshine.

Bothering both a hawk and a heron in one walk seemed significant.  A great sense of awe accompanied by support and light filled me.  I knew I needed to communicate with Dad in an honest, authentic way, to share that support and light.
 

I managed to tip a couple ounces of protein shake down Dad's throat only to provoke wrenching gurgles and rattles.  "I know, Dad.  I know."  He stared deeply into my eyes, and I felt a locked-in connection beaming absolute love between us.  "You don't have to be brave, Dad.  I will do everything possible to make it not hurt."  That is my solemn promise and responsibility. 

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

My what big i

The Occupy Alphabet owl protesters have made their point. Now it is time for them to move on and work within the system.

These hand puppets were a happy accident preschool art class project.  If you haven't drawn across corrugated cardboard with a Magic Marker lately, you owe yourself some sensory fun.

My blog muse donated a craft pack of corrugated cardboard and a how-to book with a basic puppet plan.  Never thought of cutting places for the little kids' thumbs, but I can see clearly now how that improves the design.

Already had a roll of wide wale corrugated paper.  Also the bag of tiny paper cups that fell on the floor months ago.  Too dirty for drinking, but too good to throw away, the cups became "art supplies".  The playing cards for wings just happened to be in the same bag with the cups. Beaks are Styrofoam grocery trays, but of course!  The great horns for the owls should have been shorter strips of paper, but they add to the owl personalities.

Blackland Prairie Raptor Center will present a program with birds of prey tomorrow.  That's always a highlight of my school year.  Glad the owl art helped the little kids get psyched.

Last evening I attended the condo homeowners  annual board election.  Whoooo was elected?  Thankfully, not me.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Trees in bloom, and in knits

Maybe this is an April fools joke, or perhaps somebody at the Woolie Ewe yarn shop had too much coffee.  Either way, it was an eye-catching sight in the grocery parking lot.  When I jumped out of the Buick to take some photos, a man obligingly moved his pick-up truck.  First he asked, "Are those supposed to be upside down pants?"  Might be Dr. Seuss's pale green pants with just a tree inside them.














This azalea is a quinceanera tree.  Well, not really, but the blooms look like the gowns of sweet fifteen years olds having portraits made in the gardens of the Dallas Arboretum.  Usually the gardens are full of photo entourages in wedding attire, but Sunday it was the quinceanera photo crowd.  The gowns tended toward magenta or purple, shaped like a doll cake.  Caught in the wind, the full skirts rang like Disney Fantasia flower bells.  The bodices usually laced in the back.  Matching flowers and tiaras had to be carted around in boxes and bags in the drizzle.  The completed looks lost something as the bare-shouldered honorees had to be wrapped in whatever blanket was in the trunk of the car.

The Arboretum's azalea vale was a flood of color.  I was surprised by the orange and yellows.

This might be wisteria.

The hawk was mysteria wistifed, sitting in this tree in the parking lot after an unsuccessful chase of a smaller bird.













For a joke today, it should get up to eighty-five degrees.  Have to turn off the furnace AGAIN. 

Happy April!





© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Having the filling and agitating time of your life

He's having the time of his life!

That phrase popped to mind last weekend watching Norton the Preschool Rabbit create his perfect bunny cave in the myrtle around my patio. 

What is time?  What is the time of our life?  What is wrong with the timer on my old washing machine?  What is our life?  The washer is probably long past its expected life span.

It's been an agitating week, short on cool rinses and gentle cycles.  I've been permanent wrinkled.  Or at least wrung out in serious spins. 

This Sixties band never achieved the success of Jefferson Airplane or the Grateful Dead, but the songs "White Bird", "The Girl With No Eyes", and "Time Is" hold a special place in the minds of certain Baby Boomers.

What is It's a Beautiful Day, Alex?

Time is too slow for those who wait,
and time is too swift for those who fear.

Time is too long for those who grieve,

and time is too short for those that laugh.

But for those who love,

Sweet time, sweet love

Precious time, precious love

Time is eternity.



Wash, rinse, and spin are sometimes joined by pre-soak in this list of laundry appliance functions.  What are cycles for $400, Alex?

Could I get a new washer for $400, Alex?  My machine fills with whatever temperature water it feels like at a trickling pace.  I put the clothes in, and start the washer before leaving for work at 7:30 a.m.  I arrive home after visiting Dad, and the machine is still dripping water into the tub for the rinse cycle at 6:30 p.m. 



Unless I set the dial on Hot Wash Hot Rinse. Then the tub fills quickly, and my clothes shrink quickly. It is the machine's fault! I am not getting chubbier this fast.

Life is there for the cherishing and savoring.  The memorial gathering for Felecia was so moving.  We sat on our lawn chairs in the city's greenbelt park watching hawks overhead. Butterflies flew through. Somehow I delivered my little eulogy without getting paralyzed or totally dissolving in tears.  We celebrated the times of her life.

Get out there and have the time of your life today!



© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Book touring #1

The model boat pond in Central Park was frozen the morning of Sunday, 2/20/11.  We were the only people around except for two men with enormous camera lenses on tripods.  The pond's official name, The Conservatory Water, doesn't pop quickly to my mind.  We had just made a mapless journey through the icy Ramble after visiting Strawberry Fields.

Looking up at the buildings of Fifth Avenue, it didn't click that the photographers were watching for Pale Male, the famous red-tailed hawk.  I was just thinking about Stuart Little sailing across the model boat pond in E. B. White's children's book.  The pond was much bigger than I had imagined as a child.

I was loving everything about Central Park, and sharing it with my son and daughter-in-law.  We were headed to an art museum, but hadn't decided which one.






I just reread the chapters when Stuart Little, dressed in his sailor suit, steers the Wasp across the pond and back racing the Lillian B. Womrath. Perilous weather and a paper bag test all Stuart's skill.

By the time we were finished at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and walking on Fifth Avenue, I remembered the Central Park hawks.  I kept trying to spot a nest on one of the apartment buildings, but was frequently distracted by the amazing assortment of people and shoeware on the sidewalk.

Jumping around Pale Male blogs and websites this noon, I learned hawk copulation was in progress the very day of our visit!

The picture books about Pale Male are too long and advanced for most of my students so I haven't checked them out lately.  Wikipedia lists these three:

• The Tale of Pale Male: a True Story, by Jeanette Winter (Harcourt, 2007)
• City Hawk: the Story of Pale Male, by Meghan McCarthy (Simon & Schuster, 2007)
• Pale Male: Citizen Hawk of New York City, by Janet Schulman (Knopf, 2008)

Now that I can visualize the setting better, I'll look for Marie Winn's book, Red-Tails in Love.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Craning my neck at Oak Point

I was more like owling or hawking my neck at the Oak Point Nature Preserve, walking the Barred Owl Bypass Trail.   At four-thirty looking up into the trees and squinting straight at the setting sun, I couldn't see the birds.  I could hear their raucous calls that seemed evenly spaced and usually preceded flights.  What were these large birds with striped underwings and tails?  When they flew, they were always beyond my camera range and slow reaction time.  The one time I got a clear view of a bird sitting on a branch way up, the bird looked reddish-brown. 

I have to laugh because a friend has been complaining about the music her teens enjoy.  There was something very immature and teenage in the calls of these birds.  This flower was more in my range, caught in a shaft of sunlight through the trees.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder

An odd day for hawks

This hawk flew into the the low branches of the soapberry tree on my neighbor's patio. The photo was taken with the 12x zoom through my glass sliding door, and the hawk was about 25 feet away. Why was it in this unusual place?

Maybe it was hiding out from blue jays. On my slow morning walk by the creek the blue jays and crows were in a noisy uproar. Were protective parental blue jays considering me a threat to their young-uns? Was I about to be mobbed? This is an unpleasant experience. One year jays nested near my front door. Getting into the condo was a gamut.

Suddenly a hawk flew by in the bright sunlight over the water, followed by a half dozen jays. The hawk looked like a military jet flying under the radar.

On the way into Corner Bakery my lunchmate was chatting about troop withdrawal from Iraq. Heat was rippling up from the pavement, and the noon glare was intense. Off the nearest lightpost, a hawk swooped down right over us. I could see its yellow beak and underwing markings. Was it going to carry off my friend's newly-colored hair? She talked on, oblivious, while I gaped at Hawk #2 of the day.

Now, Hawk #3 stared at me through the window. If three hawks is a sign from the Cosmos that I'm supposed to color my hair, I need clarification.

© 2010 Nancy L. Ruder