Tag: birds

The Magic of Springtime

Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger
Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger

Every year in early May, I spend three to six hours each morning at nearby Mt. Auburn Cemetery. Why? you may wonder. Well, Mt. Auburn, with its woodlands, lakes, and gardens, is a magnet for songbirds during their annual spring migration. They fly in by the hundreds on the way north from South and Central America. Some of them nest in the cemetery; others continue further to northern New England and Canada. But during the small window of time that they grace our local flowering trees and bushes, birdwatchers are blessed with up-close views of the colorful and musical birds of the tropics. Each year, I see or hear something new: a chestnut-sided warbler and a ruby-throated hummingbird having a territorial faceoff; a flycatcher singing next to a kinglet displaying its usually hidden ruby crown; a Baltimore oriole weaving a hanging nest in a tall maple tree; a wood thrush singing its fluted song on the path a few feet in front of me. These moments are magical—a fleeting glimpse into nature’s secret world.

Equally as exciting at this time of year are the perennial plants and flowers that break through the soil reaching to the light. How do they know when to move upward, when to grow stems, leaves, and flowers from their buried roots? It’s a yearly miracle that I witness both at Mt. Auburn and in my own backyard garden. Tightly furled leaves and flower buds appear first, gradually opening to the sun’s warmth and the longer light-filled days. A plant like Solomon’s Seal begins as a blunt grey/green finger pointing up out of the ground. Day by day, the finger slowly becomes a tall thick stem that bends and arches with opening leaves of fernlike delicacy. Beneath the leaves, along the arching stem, small white buds form and eventually open into a line of belled flowers. Swaying in the wind, Solomon’s Seal is one of the special visual gifts of spring, along with lilies of the valley, violets, grape hyacinth, columbine, and so many others.

Year after year, spring flowers and nesting birds remind me of life’s cycles of rebirth and renewal. After a long icy-cold Massachusetts winter like the one we have just experienced, this is a welcome message. Even in the freezing temperatures, even in the dark, life continues. The birds migrate south and return to raise their families; the plants withdraw into the earth to rest before emerging to bloom again in spring. Humans, too, have their cycles, though many of us have forgotten how to align ourselves with life’s rhythms of rest and renewal. If we look to the natural world, we can see that each living being has its own cycle of birth/flowering, rest/renewal, rebirth. In our over-scheduled, busy lives, we often careen out of control and crash in exhaustion. Yet, if we let go of so much trying and effort and allow life to unfold in cycles of activity, rest, renewal, and rebirth, we will feel so much more in tune with ourselves and all of life.

In spring’s wonders, there is great beauty, but there is also great wisdom, showing us firsthand the ever-turning circle of life/rest/rebirth that we too are part of. Something more powerful than our own attempts to control daily life is at play here. If we surrender to the flow of life that is so stunningly visible in springtime, we open ourselves to both inner peace and connection to spirit.

 

Learning to Listen

Copyright © 2013 Peggy Kornegger
Copyright © 2013 Peggy Kornegger

We learn to talk when we are babies, expressing ourselves in sounds and eventually words that make sense to those around us. Speech and verbal communication are encouraged and celebrated. What an achievement that first word is—a rite of passage in the human journey! Listening, however, is not given quite the same emphasis or encouragement. In school, we take classes in speech but not in listening. Within the context of polite behavior, we are told to listen and not interrupt, but learning to be silently present with focused attention in a variety of situations is not part of the curriculum. Neither is quiet time spent in meditation or contemplation. Western society is noisy and wordy and very distracting, and we learn to live with it in whatever way we can, often to the detriment of our inner spirit.

As an only child, I played quietly by myself as much as with friends, but I didn’t begin to learn the true value of silence and of listening until I was well into adulthood. Although from a rural background, I acclimated easily to the novelty of living in cities and thought little of urban noise for years. At some point, however, I began to notice, and then couldn’t stop noticing, the lack of quiet everywhere. I sought out silence—in meditation classes, in parks, on vacations to natural settings away from the city. I took up bird watching as a way of immersing myself in nature, and it was then that I really began to learn how to listen.

In order to observe birds closely, you have to be willing to stand or walk in absolute silence, your senses of sight and hearing keenly attuned. When you are silent and motionless, the natural world gradually resumes its normal activity, which it had ceased at the appearance of a noisy human. What a miracle this was to me when I first experienced it. The more I listened, the more I heard: birdsong, bees buzzing, squirrels chattering, chipmunks scampering through the bushes, the wind rustling tree leaves and creaking branches. My soul was in silent communion with everything around me. Over the years, my listening deepened to the point where I felt I could actually hear flowers growing in my garden in the early morning stillness. Sounds fantastic, I know, but when you quiet yourself enough and truly listen, the world opens up its secrets to you.

Birds and flowers weren’t the only ones to teach me about listening. The elder parents in my life also taught me this sacred life lesson. Both my father and my partner’s mother experienced memory loss and related dementia in their later years. What you learn first in that situation is not to rush or finish the other person’s sentences, but to allow them time/space/silence to find the words they want to say. And if they don’t find the words, so what? Really the words themselves are unimportant. You learn to listen to the spaces between the words to hear what is really being communicated. I listened with my heart, with my soul. The last time I saw him, my father and I shared a lifetime of love just by looking in each other’s eyes. When he spoke, I heard his heart’s voice beneath the words. And during the afternoons when my partner and I sat quietly with her mother listening to 1940s tunes, we experienced together the beauty of the songs as well as the silence between the songs. Our spirits were connected in that peaceful space.

Perhaps what I am describing can’t really be taught in school, but only in life. We learn to listen as we learn that there is more to this world than the physical dimension. The longer we live, the wider our perception and awareness grows (if we are fortunate), and the closer we come to the essential stillness that is at the core of being and at the center of the cosmos. Out of silence, sound is born, life is born. When we listen deeply enough, we hear the sound of silence itself. And that is the place where our souls speak to one another, without words.

 

Winter’s Spring Song

Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger
Photograph © 2014 Peggy Kornegger

The cardinal is a favorite bird on Christmas cards—that startling red presence against the white snow. But for me, cardinals are always linked in my heart to the first sign of spring in a frozen winter world. On some random day in mid- to late February, the male can be heard heralding the coming seasonal change with his “cheer, cheer, cheer” spring song. Sitting on a branch at the very top of a leafless tree in the bright winter sunshine, he sings of the coming of warmer, light-filled days, of flower bulbs pushing up out of the ground, of grass turning green. And of the spring migration of birds who have wintered in Central and South America.

House finches and chickadees begin singing their spring songs in February too. Soon, over-wintering robins and returning red-winged blackbirds, goldfinches, and phoebes are part of the morning chorus. By late April and early May, migrating birds are passing through New England in large numbers. This is what we in Massachusetts dream of and look forward to during winter’s months of snow, ice, and freezing rain. Especially those of us who will soon spend countless hours with binoculars pressed to our eyes, craning our necks upward in order to catch a glimpse of migrating warblers, orioles, tanagers, and thrushes.

This has been a challenging winter. The frigid temperatures and seemingly endless snowstorms, coupled with heavy layered clothing indoors and out, have made me daydream longingly of California and Florida. Better yet, Costa Rica, where many of our migrating birds spend the winter, and others live year-round. Still, here I am in the Northeast, and I am reminded that loving “what is” is part of living each moment to the fullest on planet Earth, wherever you happen to be. The sun rises and sets in an extraordinary display of color and light in any given month, no matter the weather. The cardinals brighten our days all winter long. Their very existence holds the promise of spring.

And, on that February day when the male cardinal begins to announce his territorial presence with song, all other thoughts recede into the background. Spring is coming, no doubt about it. The earth is giving birth to life one more time. How can you not celebrate with such a steadfast harbinger of hope and wonder—the bright-red, cheer-full cardinal?

 

The Zen of Bird-Watching

Photograph © 2013 Peggy Kornegger
Photograph © 2013 Peggy Kornegger
If you want to develop greater inner patience and be a better listener, become a bird-watcher. If you want to learn how to remain motionless in absolute silence for open-ended periods of time, become a bird-watcher. And, if you long to experience being so centered in present-moment awareness that nothing else exists, become a bird-watcher. Sound kind of Zen-like?

More than 20 years ago, I became a bird-watcher for none of the reasons mentioned above. I loved birds, that’s all. I loved their colors, their songs, their marathon migration flights between South and North America. Everything about them was awe-inspiring. Gradually, however, bird-watching also became a spiritual practice for me. Because my interest in birds developed simultaneously with my interest in meditation, the natural similarities became interwoven in my consciousness. Both meditation and bird-watching involve focus and quiet; they also require awareness and presence. I found that whether I was sitting in meditation at home or walking meditatively outdoors in nature, my inner consciousness and my outer behavior were almost identical.

Over the years, the peace that I feel while meditating or bird-watching has brought with it an underlying joy at being alive. In fact, the distinction between meditation and normal waking consciousness has blurred for me. The practice of centering my awareness in the present moment makes all of life a meditation. And never more so than springtime in Massachusetts, when birds by the thousands fly from the tropics to mate and raise families in North America. Every year, bird-watchers eagerly anticipate the magic of this relatively small window of time when the birds are passing through in a parade of colors and sound. Why the excitement, you may wonder?

Well, to me, their brightly colored spring plumage (reds, oranges, yellows, blues, greens) and their varied spring songs are just plain thrilling to see and hear. One of the first sounds signaling the coming seasonal changes is the ringing-telephone song of the red-winged blackbird (photo above). He lifts and spreads his wings to show off his colorful wing patches when he calls. As migration begins in earnest, the songs of the wood thrush and veery fill the woods with an ethereal flute-like quality that make me feel as if I have been transported to a sacred outdoor chapel. Two of my favorite birds are the orange-and-black Baltimore oriole and the red-and-black scarlet tanager, whose saturated colors often evoke audible gasps from bird-watchers when sunlight hits their feathers. Then there are the tiny warblers, in a class all their own, with an infinite variety of markings, colors, and songs. I especially love the blackburnian warbler, whose throat radiates a deep neon-orange in the sun, and the Canada warbler, whose lemon-yellow chest and throat are accessorized with a delicate black “necklace.”

It’s each bird’s unique beauty that captures my heart and transforms mere watching into something deeper. Meditation, contemplation, Zen peace of mind/spirit—but also more than that. There have been times when a bird has landed on a branch directly in front of me and begun to sing, looking directly at me. A thread of light, of living attention, links bird and human for a moment in time. It is then that I experience that miracle of connection that makes me believe unequivocally in the familial relationship of all beings on Earth.

Meditation 24/7

When I was first learning to meditate many years ago at the Insight Meditation Center in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I discovered that the teachings included not only meditation while sitting in a chair or on a cushion but also while walking. It was my first exposure to the idea of meditation off the cushion or mat and out in the world. I took to it immediately. In fact, within my own experience, I widened the idea of walking meditation to include bird watching, which was/is my year-round passion. I found that the focused attention and slow silent walking that were a part of looking for and at birds were very similar to the focus on each breath and each step in walking meditation. Both activities fostered full presence in the moment. Every time I spent a morning or afternoon watching birds, I always felt very much in a meditative state.

This approach to meditation has remained with me through the years. I do consistently continue to meditate indoors while seated, but I also find that “meditation” defines my prevailing state of mind whenever I am outdoors in nature. This is particularly true since I have become a backyard gardener in the past few years. When I am planting or transplanting flowers, my hands in the earth, or just standing quietly watching everything grow, my mind has slowed its busyness, and my thought waves are peaceful, unhurried. I am centered in the present moment and feel one with the flow of life all around me as it slowly grows and moves into flowering. I see myself as part of that flow, that flowering. It is a comforting, inclusive feeling.

For me, then, meditation has become more than a singular activity or practice. It is a way of being in the world that I remind myself of on a daily basis. Just as I focus on the movement of each living breath in the present while in seated meditation, I can take deep breaths to inhale and exhale with gratitude for each moment no matter where I am or what I’m doing. It is all the same practice really. I would guess that most meditators (and yoga practitioners) experience a similar inner and outer connection.