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| Mountain's Totem |
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| As transformed by Rick Slaydon and Sandra Patterson-Slaydon |
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Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Bearly There
I watch a raven perch on a large green pottery dish I have
set out on a stump just at the edge of the woods. I fill the dish for the birds most days with water from one of the rain
barrels. It is the hot, dry, dangerous height of summer in the mountains. The raven dips a black beak into the liquid and
drinks, repeating this gesture over and over again, returning upright after each sip to survey the surroundings.
I sit shoulder-deep in water in the "hot tub," which I now keep at a fairly cool temperature due to the warm summer
days. I like to take a cup of morning coffee out to the back patio to float in the still water and meditate in the morning.
I watch the woods behind the cabin, and I enjoy a few precious minutes of quiet mind.
This summer, a family of
green-backed swallows have made their home in the bluebird house under the eave of the roof. The new babies are creating quite
a cacophony. The parents are rushing to and fro to find food for what sounds like three chicks chirping. The little ones chatter
a slow cadence of cheek-cheek-cheek until a parent returns, at which point, the babies' voices escalate to a
frenzied pitch and tempo. The mother swallow swoops low, right over my head, and dives straight into the little hole in the
face of the birdhouse with amazing accuracy. A tiny wren dances on the rim of the cedar fence and watches.
More
activity: A squirrel does acrobatics on a tree limb near me. He, too, will take water from one of the several stone basins
near the cabin that I keep full at this time of year, when I'm home. A pair of hummingbirds thrum around the pots and
baskets of flowers, savoring the red and purple blossoms the most. I used to put out a feeder for the hummingbirds until it
drew unintended visitors: bears. Now I no longer feed the hummingbirds for fear I would cause a bear to become used to coming
near human communities for food. You know what they say: a fed bear is a dead bear.
A bear visited just
the other night, actually the wee hours of the morning. A nocturnal writer, I was working in the Sky Chapel, engrossed in
the computer screen when I heard a series of thumps. I quickly put the computer to sleep so the screen would dim, turned out
the light, and went to the window. There, just a few feet from me—outside a big, wide-open casement window—a bear
stood upright, wrestling with and banging on the big, green, "bear-proof" trash container. She looked at the window
as I drew near, but I could not tell if she saw me. She was, however, quite aware of me, as she raised her nose and drew in
my scent with a big sniff. I did the same, smelling her wild, gamey smell. She hesitated, facing the window, only a thin stretch
of screen between us. But she was soon disinterested in me: she returned to the big trash container, throwing it down and
dragging it a few yards into the woods in frustration at being unable to unlock it. She was a black bear, larger than most,
and I have decided that she is probably female because I have also seen a nearly-mature cub this season, so I imagine the
two are related.
But back to this morning, floating in the hot tub: I realize that I am much like this visitor
friend of mine, the bear. It is high summer, and when I am home (which is not enough of the time) I tend to retreat into the
woods, keeping close to my den and delighting in the beauty of the mountains, the achingly blue sky, the smell of pine sap
in the ponderosas, the wildflowers. I scrabble up and down the rocky slopes during the cool mornings and evenings, and I only
venture far from my den for supplies. I like to do my roaming at night, through my writing.
Cumulus clouds are
building over the peaks already this morning. Lately, it has clouded over several days straight in the afternoon. Sometimes
these clouds bring rumbling thunder—rarely a shower. It is mostly dry now. Hot (at least for the mountains) and dry.
Until the monsoons come to slake the forest's thirst, the bears will be hungry, as there are few berries and succulent
roots when it is this dry. This is what brings these foragers dangerously close to human community.
One last sip
of coffee, and I rise from the water and pull on a thick, black, hooded robe. To the raven, squirrel, the family of swallows,
hummingbirds, flowers, and the wren, I give thanks. To the water in which I floated, the pines, the rocks, the mountains and
the clouds—even to the remembered visit from the bear—I bow down. To all of these, I owe my respect and gratitude
for a few moments of still mind, a precious respite from thought and ego and hurry and worry. Now, I will try to carry all
that beauty with me into the rest my day, into my wild writing.
8:01 am mdt
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sandiault.com Copyright
2009, Sandi Ault, All Rights Reserved Music by Sandi Ault,
Photos by Tracy A. Kerns and Sandi Ault unless otherwise stated All Rights
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