One autumn, while hiking in Shropshire,
we wandered into a flock of sheep.
A few were scared and walked off,
sheep-like. But they kept turning to
look back, as curious as we were.
IN THE WOODS
In 1698, in a small town in the Ukraine, Israel ben Eliezer was born. The legends say he was different from other children: While they were busy playing, he would wander into the woods and stay there for hours talking to God.
Israel grew up to be a beloved rabbi. People called him the Ba’al Shem Tov, Master of the Good Name, and he was the founder of Hasidism, a mystical movement in Judaism. He taught his followers to be on the lookout for God, who is everywhere, he said, in everyone and everything.
Until the end of his life, the Ba’al Shem continued his forays into the woods to meditate and talk freely with God. One day a friend asked him, “Izzy, if God is everywhere, why go in the woods to pray?”
The Ba’al Shem answered, “It’s true, my friend, God is everywhere. But it’s easiest, for me, to find him in the woods.”
When I was a kid in Philly, my favorite adventures were with my cousin Eddie: bike trips to Carpenter’s Woods. We’d leave the busy streets and honking cars of Germantown and soon hear only silence or the rushing water of the creek. Resting our bikes on the fern-covered ground, we’d hike through this forest with its shafts of light. For a city girl, those times were a source of peace, and a sense of something much bigger than myself.
Years later, I discovered that those feelings could be deepened by going camping. So when I moved to Boulder, where the plains meet the mountains, John and I vowed to camp out every autumn. It’s a vow I often remind him of: “Time for our annual camping trip!” Annual in that we plan one every year—but rarely actually go. Why? Because like many things in life, camping is a lot more fun in the planning stage. And half the fun is in replying, “What are we doing this weekend? Oh, we’re going campin’.” Said with subtle overtones at once macho and righteous.
Our back-in-Manhattan friends—who have avoided such outings ever since they were kids sent to summer camp in the Catskills—are impressed. Our here-in-Boulder friends—who prefer two-week treks to two-night car camping—are not. Still, they are kindly solicitous: “Be sure to keep all your food in the car so you won’t attract bears.” Right, I nod.
Bears?! Why do I always forget little details like bears? Which brings me to the fantasizing. I mean, I always picture us tenting on the perfect site: on top of a hill amid a grove of fir trees. There we are, John and I, sitting around the starry-night campfire, hearing the primal sounds of elks bugling (if we’re lucky), and then falling into a deep sleep in our cozy tent.
Now, here’s what happened the last time we camped: It took three hours to pack our car with every possible necessity and a surplus of canned food, and by the time we arrived at Rocky Mountain National Park, we were assigned the only site left: a patch of dirt in the woods right under the power line. “No problem,” said my ever-optimistic husband. “The only time we’ll be in the tent is when we’re sleeping. Let’s go on a beautiful hike.”
Good idea—until it started raining. Sloshing through mud, we returned to our campsite and soon surrendered any dreams of a campfire. Stashing our marshmallows into the car, we drove four miles to find a good diner.
Later, back in the tent, I suddenly remembered why we rarely go camping: achy back from lying on hard dirt floor; going to the bathroom in the cold, rainy night; waking every ten minutes ’cause of those damn bugling elks. I was not a happy camper.
Truth is, when I lived in Manhattan where museums are abundant, I rarely went to museums. But surrounded by all that art, I felt very “artsy.” And now, surrounded by all these mountains, I feel very “campy.” So why, I ask myself, do we actually have to go?
Maybe it’s because I’ve reached an age where I know I’m mortal and I don’t want my last words to be: “I wish we had camped out more.”
Or maybe it’s because even last time, there were moments—the totally dark and silent night, being woken at dawn by two calling crows, a cool, misty morning that smelled of pines—moments of sensing that God is everywhere. And, like the Ba’al Shem Tov, I tend to find him in the woods.
ANIMAL CHATS
One reason I fell in love with John was he talked to animals. Nothing heavy, just “Hello, Mr. Squirrel. How are you today?” or “Hi, Miss Robin. Welcome back!” I found it endearing and, like him, very English—in a Peter Rabbit kind of way. In fact, when we visited the village where John was born, it was like stepping into a Beatrix Potter book. There were rabbits and ducks wherever I looked. And on the hillside nearby, I spotted some sheep.
That was no big deal since sheep are found all over England, where they’re said to outnumber people. One autumn, while hiking in Shropshire, we wandered into a flock of them. They stared at us, and we stared back. Then I started to sing softly so they wouldn’t be afraid. A few were still scared and walked off, one after the other, sheep-like. But they kept turning to look back, as curious as we were.
Sheep aren’t the only animals I’ve reached out to.
After reading a book that said we can communicate with all species, I tried it first with bugs. I’d ask certain flies to alight on my hand and stand still—and they would! I could see their antennas going, boom, boom, and for the first time I felt there was spirit in those flies, who were looking at me as surely as I was looking at them.
I do believe it’s possible to converse with all animals, perhaps more telepathically than verbally. The first time John and I went hiking in Hall Ranch, in the mountains near Lyons, Colorado, we were expecting to see an abundance of wildlife since it offered new trails and had long been left wild. Yet in two hours of hiking, we saw nothing but trees, even when we stood still and were quiet. So I called out to the wild ones, silently, asking them to join us. Within minutes, we spotted a lizard, a snake, a rabbit . . . and then a herd of deer ran leaping along the red cliffs above us. My heart leapt too.
I’ve also noticed that when John goes off traveling or I’m facing some crisis, the neighborhood deer come to sleep on our lawn. I’m not aware that I’ve called them, yet they come, like a faithful dog that knows when it’s needed.
There are some species though—say, earwigs—that I have little interest in talking to. Especially when they enter our home. Still, I try to honor all living things, so instead of killing them, I ask them to leave, and if they don’t, I carry them out (well, have John carry them out).
If I do choose to kill, I offer an apology or prayer, the way the Indians did when they killed buffalo for meat. The Native People honor the buffalo and call him their brother. They believe we are all related, four-footed as well as two-footed creatures, along with plants and trees, sky and earth . . . and even my mean third-grade teacher, Miss Brown. All of us, linked together, in an indivisible Hoop of Life.
Nowadays, I speak to animals as much as John does. “Hi, Magpie,” I say. “Hello, Bees.” And when the deer come to graze on our lawn, I talk to them in a quiet tone as I’ve been taught you should. “No worries,” I assure them. “Glad you’re here. You can eat the grass, but stay out of the flowers.” Their ears perk up attentively, and then they eat the flowers.
ODES TO A GARDEN
SOIL TIME
I met Majid at a Sufi ceremony—a Zikr, which means remembrance, remembrance of God. We chanted and danced and whirled like dervishes, with each turn lifting us higher. Then we sat on exotic rugs and ate exotic treats: almonds and figs and pastries with honey. All in remembrance of God. Yum.
It was at a spring Zikr that I met Majid, a noble-looking man in his thirties. He had moved to Boulder from Iran and was studying to be a landscape architect. He was looking for work, and my garden was looking for help.
One week later, Majid came and transplanted some forget-me-nots from our backyard to the front so we could see those blue beauties more clearly. I helped pat down the d
irt and said a blessing, “Take root and live. We love you. Be happy.”
Majid told me that Islam says whoever works in the soil is closest to Allah. He enjoys researching plants and making landscape drawings. But to feel good, he said, he needs his hands in the soil.
I feel the same. Like a kid making mud pies, I’m in bliss when my hands are in dirt—touching it, smelling its earthy smell, and watching the hidden world of worms and insects beneath. And if I’m feeling tense, there’s nothing like digging up weeds to feel clear again and present.
Soil time. Close to the earth. Closest to Allah.
PLANTING
I read a story once about a woman who moved often yet planted gardens wherever she lived. She didn’t mind that she was moving on and leaving them behind. She didn’t mind doing all that work for results she might never see. Her happiness came, she said, from making the world more beautiful.
WATERING
Every June morning, I rise early and go to the garden to water the budding flowers and newborn vegetables before the sun gets too hot. Everything is serene at this hour, as the sky slowly opens and the earth wakes up. I hold the hose and water deeply, standing still, almost in a trance. Between the rows of chard I see a neon-blue dragonfly sipping nectar from a rose. The birds are chirping, the butterflies playing, and soon I am lost in the buzz of the bees. All the world is singing, it seems, singing thank you for this day.
By late August, though, the joy of watering wears thin. “Did you water the plants?” I ask John hopefully, since it’s already 9 a.m. and the sun is getting hot. “No, I was too busy,” he says. So I stump out to the garden where most things now look a little old and withered, and I’m thinking, Oh, they’re gonna die soon anyway, why bother.
Then a tiny green hummingbird lands on our floppy comfrey plant, dips into its purple flowers, hovers above it, and leaves.
Okay guys, I’m back, hose in hand, ready to water.
POPPIES
Everyone in Boulder had poppies—masses of poppies—everyone except us. “Take ours!” neighbors implored. “They’re like weeds!” So I picked a few and tried to transplant them in different parts of our meadow. No luck. Then I sowed their seeds and waited for spring. Still no luck. Finally, after three years of poppy mistrials, we planted the seeds in the right place at the right time and up they popped.
And once up, they were unstoppable, producing more and more each year. I love to see them from my office window, a splash of orange against green grass and blue sky. But it’s up close that they’re outrageous, with their huge, ruffled petals, shiny black design, and a flurry of seeds circling one purple star.
The Buddha said, “If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole life would change.” I think he was looking at poppies.
SIMPLE PLEASURES
It wasn’t until I moved to Boulder that I discovered the joys of a clothesline. When John first asked me to leave Manhattan and join him out West, I pictured him fetching me in a covered wagon. Leaving the city that never sleeps for what was then a sleepy town made me feel like a pioneer woman (“Rivvy of the Prairies”), and so did using a clothesline. I guess I was finally learning the simple tasks of daily life. And after years of urban living, I relished each old-fashioned chore.
I loved standing barefoot in the grass, using wooden pegs to hang our sheets. I delighted in watching them blow in the wind as the sun and air naturally dried them. And later, when I made our bed, I savored their fresh, sweet scent and remembered how, as a child, I would walk between and smell the sheets my mother hung to dry.
Now, I admit it: The clothesline broke and I reunited with our electric dryer. No worries, I told John. We can still save energy. I’ll just wash less often . . . and vacuum less too!
But now and then, I still hang something out to dry, and that always feels right. And when we’d phone John’s ninetyseven-year-old mother in England, she’d often tell us she was just outside, hanging the wash to dry. She never did anything but. So this one’s a recipe from Dorothy Wilcockson (“Dorothy of Mole Valley”), who knew the joy of simple pleasures.
THE BIRD CONNECTION
Few things cheer me as instantly as birds. When a flock of them rise all at once from a tree, chattering away as they soar ever higher, I can’t stop myself from smiling.
Sometimes I sit on a bench in our yard, listening to the songs of our neighborhood birds and noting what they’re up to. I’ve seen small birds hitch a ride on larger ones. I’ve seen robins courting, the female flirting but flying away once the male approaches, in some ritual that’s not unlike our own. And I once saw a gang of magpies chase a squirrel who dared to bother them while they were eating.
To witness all this interaction feels humbling: Our world is so rich, there’s so much I don’t know. Bird watching is a way to learn more.
The fun begins by sitting still and being allowed into their world. There’s also the pleasure of using a field guide to discover the names of birds you don’t know. Flipping through the pages is like doing a puzzle . . . and then, aha! This picture and description fit the bill (so to speak). That handsome black bird with red on its wings is a “red-winged blackbird.” Well named! I say it a few times and write it down, grateful that some people actually recorded the names and traits of thousands of species.
Once you get to know your birds better, you start to notice their different ways—they’re not just all “birds.” And, just as with people, you will have your favorites.
I’m partial to robins because they seem more trusting. Most of the birds that hang out in our garden fly away fast when I appear. But when a robin is around doing its business (usually digging for worms) and I come out to do my business (usually digging for weeds), the robin cocks its head as if to say hi and doesn’t fly away. We’re there together, muy simpatico, each doing our own thing.
On the other hand, I was never too crazy about grackles. They make a crackling (grackling?) kind of noise and appear to be mean. Grackles first came to our bird feeder one May morning and immediately started bombing down on smaller birds—sweet finches, innocent sparrows—to scare them away. In a few days, the turf was theirs. I was not pleased. All my joy of watching an array of birds at the feeder was being ruined by a few neighborhood thugs!
I called our local Wild Bird Center to complain and see what I could do. The man who answered informed me that grackles are not native to Boulder but started coming here after some folks planted trees that are not native, trees from back East that the grackles prefer—namely, Austrian pines. Yes, I confessed, we planted two of them right by the house, and they were now twelve feet tall, elegant, and strong.
“So,” I asked, “how can I get rid of the grackles?”
“Cut down the pines,” he said.
Right. Thanks.
“Why do you want to get rid of them?” he asked, sensing I was not about to grab an ax. “They have a right to be here, as much as all the other birds.”
“They’re pushing out all the other birds,” I argued. “They’re mean and aggressive and greedy.”
“Hmm,” said their defender. “They probably built a nest nearby and they’re protecting it. That’s why they’re chasing off the other birds. It’s their parental instinct.”
Well, that made them more sympathetic in my eyes, if it were in fact true. And a few weeks later, I found out it was! I heard tiny grackles grackling and saw something I’d never seen before: Grackle after grackle would come feed the little ones—not just the mother or father as I’d observed with other birds, but the whole grackle clan, bringing worms to drop into the mouths of the babes.
So this is a shout-out for grackles. Add a chair to the table and welcome them too.
Thank you for the birds that sing,
Thank you, God, for everything!
WITH BEAUTY MAY I WALK
Around the time we were thinking of moving back East, back to family, our friend Carrie took John and me to a summer art show. It was called Dual Visions a
nd featured the work of artist couples. Each couple had written a statement as well, describing what inspired them to create and how their partner’s vision influenced their own. One couple wrote that nothing inspired them more than the beauty of nature: “It reminds us to make our life beautiful, whether it be the garden, our home, the art we make, or a dinner with close friends.”
Carrie and her husband, Hal, were the oldest couple whose work was displayed. Carrie was eighty, but still had bangs and the air of a tomboy. With her lilting laugh and endless curiosity, she seemed to be forever young. Hal, her longtime partner in art and adventures, had died at eighty-four, one year before the show.
An environmentalist and geologist, Hal had also been a photographer. He loved the native beauty of our world and wanted to preserve it. To realize that goal, he photographed some of the most untouched places on Earth for the Nature Conservancy, an organization that raises money to purchase such land and protect it. The Dual Visions show displayed a few of Hal’s photographs of woodlands and wilderness. Shot in black and white, each rock and tree looked ancient, and there was drama played out between shadow and light. Hal had written before he died that his aim was twofold: to capture the beauty and to enhance it by the way he framed each photo.
Carrie’s pictures were also of trees and rocks and wildland, but hers were charcoal sketches, softer and more intimate, and her aim was to lose herself—or find herself—in nature. “Hal searched for the truth of a place,” she wrote, “and I for a metaphor.”
After viewing the show, we drove up Boulder Canyon to have dinner at the Red Lion Inn, which sat alone by a creek amid forests of pine trees. Later, as the sun was setting, Carrie, John, and I stood outside, staring at a golden mist that veiled the Rocky Mountains. “Carrie,” I said, “it’s so beautiful. How can we ever leave Boulder?” She assured me that natural beauty could be found anywhere, “wherever people haven’t ruined it.”
Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles Page 5