Gleanings from December 2015 and January 2016

“All Nature speaks the voice of dissolution.  The highway of history and of life is strewn with the wrecks that Time, the great despoiler, has made.  We listen sorrowfully to the Autumn winds as they sigh through dismantled forests, but we know their breath will be soft and vernal in the Spring, and the dead flowers and withered foliage will blossom and bloom again.  And if a man dies, shall he, too, not live again?”                                                         —Daniel Wolsey Voorhees

Time has been messing with my mind these last two months.  With my Dad’s run at recovery after his pneumonia, the days seemed to go by quickly as we prepared and looked forward to his return home, but as things got worse again, Time slowed.  With his death, it was as if Time wasn’t even recognizable anymore.  Wait, was it only two days since he died?!  I seemed to be in another realm where Time wasn’t numbered and predictable.  Then Nature stepped in–the voice of resolution as well as dissolution, and day by day, the birds outside my window helped me settle down.  I was surprised to see a mourning dove at the feeder one morning–I don’t usually see them in the middle of winter, and they most often browse on the ground for food.  A mourning dove for my mourning.

A pileated woodpecker’s long, strong beak made short work of the suet-stuffed log feeder.

Purple finches gathered at the feeders in groups–a community of fine-feathered friends.

The male’s rosy-colored feathers looked like a richly tailored tweed suit.

Carrying his sunflower seeds to the maple tree, a Downy woodpecker placed them in the grooves of bark to break open the hull to reach the nutritious kernel.

Flower-bright cardinals come to the feeder in late afternoon when the other birds are finished feeding for the day.

And the squawking loner bluejay feeds in the morning, scaring away black-capped chickadees and nuthatches that browse throughout the day.

Sunrise of another day, a month of days and more….

Mourning time is measured by sunrises and sunsets and by birds flying to the feeders in their tenacious purpose of nourishing themselves for another day.  The dissolution of my earthly relationship with my Dad and the permanence of that takes time to integrate into my soul.  Nature helps me sort out the grief, work out the pain, and measure the memories.  Writer Paul Theroux declares, “Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.”  I am looking forward to blooming again.