field notes:

1.31.2003

Some poems from West Wind by Mary Oliver:

The Rapture
-Mary Oliver

All summer
I wandered the fields
that were thickening
every morning,

every rainfall,
with weeds and blossoms,
with the long loops
of the shimmering, and the extravagant--

pale as flames they rose
and fell back,
replete and beautiful--
that was all there was--

and I too
once or twice, at least,
felt myself rising,
my boots

touching suddenly the tops of the weeds,
the blue and silky air--
listen,
passion did it,

called me forth,
addled me,
stripped me clean
then covered me with the cloth of happiness--

I think there is no other prize,
only rapture the gleaming,
rapture the illogical the weightless--

whether it be for the perfect shapeliness
of something you love--
like an old German song--
or of someone--

or the dark floss of the earth itself,
heavy and electric.
At the edge of sweet sanity open
such wild, blind wings.

West Wind 2
-Mary Oliver

You are young. So you know everything. You leap
into the boat and begin rowing. But, listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart's little intelligence, and listen to
me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a
dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks -- when you hear that unmistakable
pounding -- when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming -- then row, row for your life
toward it.

posted by Lisa on 3:57 PM link |

1.29.2003

It was a low, low tide yesterday afternoon. I went for a quick walk before the State of the Union speech, giving myself plenty of time to pour a glass of wine for the show -- but I won't digress (don't get me started).

There were 28 Willets working the exposed bay bottom at the edge of the water. Mostly they ate in busy harmony, but one Willet came up with a squirming two inches of something tasty and was chased bird by bird into flying away from the group where he could dine in peace.

There's a sweet tree at the north end of our cove that grows horizontally from the rocks before it turns upwards nominally. Part of its trunk makes a kind of back cradle that I like to lean against and gaze out towards Hog Island and the imagined ocean beyond. It only takes a moment to lean back and feel the tree hold me. For a moment I am away. For a moment I am not a person with worries, or pressing deadlines, or dinner to cook, just a woman and her tree.

Turning back I saw that the Willets had gone. I could hear them, but could no longer see them. Were they just out of sight beyond the pier? All that I could see was mud or muddy. But as I walked along the beach they reappeared in their places. As I regained the blue watery background I realized that they hadn't left at all -- their muddy coloring had only worked as intended. 28 busy Willets disappeared completely from 30 feet distant. It's nice to see that some things work.

I also did a little pond-birding yesterday. I was called to jury duty but was excused mid-day. Across from our Frank Lloyd Wright-designed civic center is a small lagoon populated by a motley crew of ducks and gulls.

Mallard pairs, Lesser Scaups and little Coots compete with Mew and other unidentified gulls for bread crumbs and whatever other junk people throw them to eat. Ducks gathered around me hoping I would feed them. One after another Mallard would gain the prime center spot of the crowd at my feet by bill-snapping any duck that came close.

In San Pedro I go to a park sometimes that has a dark duck pond. One day I watched as one pair tag-teamed bullied a duck, biting and chasing. It was very upsetting to watch, and moreso because I had my young niece with me. I didn't know how to explain this to her and I didn't want her to have seen it. I've been told that this kind of behavior only occurs at these domesticated pond-scenes, especially where there is no extant life in the water.

I don't know if the mild center-stage grabbing I watched at Civic Center Lagoon yesterday was more of that behavior. I got the bird book out of the car and was trying my hand at gull ids when a woman came by with three little girls of about 7 or so. They proceeded to chase and yell at the ducks and geese nearby, with purpose and without being asked to stop. I wonder if these kids would be acting this way in a more natural setting, or if this too was domesticated-pond behavior. Were there just too many kids here? Was this latent field trip behavior, or public school social conditioning? I wanted to talk to these kids, to tell them to leave the ducks alone, give them some peace. But instead I closed my book and walked away. It's better this way, let the ducks learn to stay away from them now.

This is not the kind of place where kids can get the point about nature and the peacefulness of watching birds be birds.

posted by Lisa on 9:27 AM link |

1.27.2003

We went out to Staten Island yesterday, it's a recent addition to the Cosumnes River Preserve which is owned by the Nature Conservancy. We drove over the unforgettable Antioch Bridge and along the leveed riverbank of the Sacramento River to Walnut Grove, then headed east to Staten Island. It's not really an island, the delta is full of misnamed islands. It's agricultural land that the owners flood during winter to provide refuge for 100,000 overwintering birds, 18,000 of them Sandhill Cranes. We saw at least 1,000 of those yesterday, along with hundreds of tundra swans and snow geese. I tried to get a decent picture of a Crane, but as hard as I tried I wasn't able to get close enough.

Their call is unforgettable.

Here's a list of the birds we saw throughout the Preserve and on the drive:

Sandhill Crane 1,000
Tundra Swan 100
Snow Goose 150
Red-Winged Blackbird 1,000
Great Egret
Blue Heron
Pintail
American Wigeon
Northern Shoveler
Coot
Bufflehead
Black-Necked Stilt
Red-Tailed Hawk
Northern Harrier
Meadowlark
White-Tailed Kite
Yellow-Billed Magpie
Rough-Legged Hawk
Scrub Jay
Kestrel
crow

I was struck yesterday with the difference between living here on the edge of a national park, surrounded by protected land and people who care about the environment --surrounded by converts -- from living out in the delta. There is still work to be done here keeping development down, jetskis out, and bacteria counts low. But it's so pristine because of all the work that has already been done. Out there along the rivers -- the Sacramento, the Cosumnes and the Mokulemne -- I was stunned by the trash. Even just outside the Preserve was an old gulley filled with broken cars, beds, and scores of old tires. The people who work out there fighting to buy preserves, and to change the way people think, they really have their work cut out for them. But there is a real difference to be made there.

Part of environmental work is affecting policy, but much of it is working with local people and showing them that conservation can make sense for their lives and doesn't have to affect economies negatively. I admire what the Nature Conservancy does throughout the world. They do more than buy up land to preserve it, they work with localities and create practical solutions for people.

And birds.

posted by Lisa on 10:06 PM link |

1.23.2003

I haven't had a proper walk in almost a week now. The rain, or should I say, the wetness, is unrelenting; an unremitting monotony of greys against a backdrop of greens from moss to ever. The wetness just surrounds. The sky and the shoes damp without the promise of sun or the release of rain that pours down and fills rather than merely wets.

A particularly beautiful Flicker caught my eye yesterday, bright orange like fungi on a fallen log. Work keeps me indoors dreaming of booted trails and waves of oar.

This Sunday we're leaving the super bowl world behind for a drive to the Cosumnes River Preserve to see the Sandhill Cranes. I'm hopeful for cartwheels of birds, skies of scatter and swoop, and leggy grasses of delta water.

posted by Lisa on 9:41 AM link |

1.22.2003

One thing I don't understand about peace rallies and the press. Every story about every rally reports two figures for attendance, something like this from the San Francisco Chronicle:

The protest's organizers, an umbrella coalition called International ANSWER, or Act Now to Stop War & End Racism, estimated the crowd at 200,000. Police put the number at 55,000.

This is in no way atypical. It's hard for me to imagine another scenario where a news organization would report two such disparate figures in any other arena without weighing in with some hard data of their own. Is it that difficult to estimate crowds? Maybe they could hire some migratory bird counters to come in and give them some pointers.

I was there, and I know that people were constantly coming and going via Bart (underground trains) all along the marches' route. That has to make a count difficult.

Here's how I would begin, though. First, I'd estimate how many people it would take to fill the Civic Center rally area using helicopter shots, then I'd use the same photo source to estimate the number of people it takes to fill Market Street's four lanes the two miles from the Civic Center to the Embarcadero. That would supply the base number of people -- a number that both the police and the organizing groups would have to agree on.

Then, I'd get figures from the ferry lines, and from Bart about how many people came into the city vs how many come into the city on a typical Saturday. Those numbers would be rough around the edges, but they could be balanced using a typical bird count strategy: stand in one spot and count the passing numbers for a series of 15 minute periods, average, multiply, etc.

Seemingly, no attempt is made on the part of news organizations to get accurate numbers. How can they report such numbers without weighing in with an estimate of their own? Wouldn't that be good reporting? Or, how about addressing the issue head-on by reporting the difficulty of estimating crowds and the methods being used?

If anybody knows more about this than I do, I'd love to hear from you.

posted by Lisa on 1:36 PM link |

1.17.2003

I've thought a lot about dolce far niente, the sweetness of doing nothing. I value free time, quiet time, down time -- to the detriment of ambition, I work at building it into my days.

It's difficult to reconcile the dread and helplessness I feel in response to the day's news and the march towards war with surrender to the soft spots of beauty I encounter as I seek inspiration and hope. This poem by Neruda nicely links the sweet stopping of time with hope for a peaceful world.

by Pablo Neruda:

And now we will count to twelve
And we will all keep still

For once on the face of the earth,
Let's not speak in any language;
let's stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victory with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused with total inactivity.
(Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death)

If we were not so singleminded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive

Now I'll count up to twelve.
and you keep quiet and I will go.

-Pablo Neruda

Beautiful, yes? I'll see you on the streets of San Francisco tomorrow as we attempt to silence the makers of war and sit them down on the shady grounds of peace.

posted by Lisa on 8:49 AM link |

1.12.2003

Tree Lady

I came upon her standing
hidden against the hill
as the trail winds up from the beach

I like to stand
under certain trees
I stand under trees
she said

People like this give
Californians a bad name

I know this
but I smiled at her
because
I smile now thinking of it
and said I know what you mean

posted by Lisa on 4:59 PM link |

1.09.2003

assorted sightings and notes...from 1.8.03

The beach is at least 15 degrees warmer this morning than up the hill at my cabin where it is 44 degrees (f). The sun is warm and the water blue and inviting. A flock of Surf Scoters, Buffleheads and some Lesser Scaups is hanging out in our cove feasting amongst the eelgrass at low tide. I also saw the local kingfisher, but none of the other solitary birds I've come to know.

The bay is alive with birds at this time of year. Gulls abound, brown pelicans, cormorants. I'm itching to get out on my kayak on one of these windless days when I don't have quite so much work that can't be put off.

Monday on Papermill Creek just upstream of White House Pool I saw some river otters. There were three of them, and I was treated to the longest look at them I've ever had. They were busy in the reeds lining both sides of the creek, making such a racket that my dog was getting excited. But they didn't seem to hear her growl, or at least it didn't dissuade them. After foraging bankside they would come together into the middle of the creek, then facing each other in a triangle grouping, would each dive towards the center, one after another.

Yesterday I walked at North Beach in the late afternoon. From the parking lot I headed north away from the setting sun because I'd had my eyes dilated earlier in the day and they were sensitive. I planned to walk back into the sunset. The colors were amazing. I recommend dilated pupils for beachwalking. Each pebble in the sand reflected back rich tones of gold, brown and copper. Beautiful greens and blues beckoned from each wave and softened the foamy recklessness to a dreamlike wash. Driftwood glowed amber and posed nudelike on the stretched sand.

There was an inversion layer against the horizon which reflected the great red sphere of sun resulting in an bold red hourglass. As it completely disappeared from view the sky lit up with a crashing series of flashes of red and orange in a kind of concerted crescendo or drumroll for the setting sun. Afterwards, the new moon hung high alone -- cold and sober in comparison -- but beautiful in the dark blue evening sky.

Saw a forget-me-not today. Is it a holdover from last year, or an extremely early false-spring optimist?

I think the herring have come in. Just now at sunset I see across the bay at north Millerton that the birds have gathered and are going wild. Even from here it looks like a series of bombs going off as pelicans plunge into the water and gulls and other birds circle and maw. Now I'm extremely motivated to get into a boat tomorrow.

posted by Lisa on 7:38 AM link |

1.06.2003

I'm torn about what to write and how to write.

Living under a government that marches towards a questionable war while daring the world to stop it, and which values the rights of corporations more than citizens, at times I'm too weary to pick up my pen.

On the other hand, my heart is filled with prostate, whimpering humility in the face of the beauty that surrounds me. So I walk the beaches and the woods and wonder where to turn my thoughts. I wonder how I can make a difference, and I wonder what value there is in writing about the natural world when there is such turmoil in the culture.

Has anybody seen my copy of "How to be a Citizen of the World while Living in an Empire"?

When in doubt, I turn to the poets. Here's what William Stafford has to say:

Surrounded by Mountains

Digging potatoes east of Sapporo
we would listen at noon to world news.

The little radio was in one of the furrows,
propped against a lunch bucket.

We didn't make any judgments. Our fields
were wide, slanting from wooded foothils.

Religious leaders called for
a revival of spirit in the world.

Certain statesmen from important
nations were considering a summit meeting.

Old Mrs. Osaka, permanently
bent over, stirred the clods beside her.

Rice fields, yellow as sunflowers,
marked off kilometers below us.

The shrine where the crows lived
had a bell that told us when rest was over.

Goodby, old friends. I remember the Prime Minister
talking, and the water jar in the shade.

...

posted by Lisa on 12:54 PM link |