A Sense of Wonder

I’m setting up for a book event. As I do, I make nice introductory noises at the person who will be my table neighbor for the day and give a quick glance at her books. Then I do a doubletake because there is a see-through travel beehive with actual bees inside.

I stop what I’m doing and go take a look.

 

I’m not unfamiliar with bees. I’ve gotten close ups before. My dad (and my grandfathers) kept bees. They started keeping them because they were told that local honey could possibly help me with my childhood chronic asthma issues.

Maybe it did (I don’t suffer from asthma anymore).

But one close up (or many) doesn’t mean the next won’t be as good. For honeybees are wonderful.

Not (only) because they are so valuable to our ecosystem (it’s not all about us) but, to name a few reasons, because of their intricate social structures, their amazing sense of direction and navigation, the way they can heat or cool their hives to keep it at a steady, precise temperature, their defense mechanisms, their symbiotic relationship with pollinating flowers, and their skill at communication.

As the day goes on, I get the most joy out of watching people pass by and, as I’d done, do a doubletake when they catch sight of the travel-hive.

 

The beekeeper-bookseller tells each person, “There’s a queen in there. See if you can find her.” Even as she also peers through the glass to find the queen herself.  

Though a few people ask for reassurance that the hive is secure and the bees aren’t loose (or won’t get loose), only a few people refuse to take a closer look. Most go to press their noses up against the glass to watch the bees work. To look for the queen among all the worker bees.

The son of one of the other vendor’s (a boy of 12 or so) comes over every so often to continue a conversation with me and then to look with intensity for the queen bee. But she stays out of sight.

When he has to return to his booth, the beekeeper tells him, “If I see her, I’ll yell for you.”

And when she finally does locate the queen, she yells out his name until he hears her and comes rushing over, quivering with excitement. After a moment, he darts away to go grab a phone so he can record the moment.

I can’t help the smile on my face. I’m experiencing vicarious wonder and it tastes as sweet as honey.

What I often miss by living in the city is a sense of wonder.

Not that I don’t get to sometimes sit and watch anoles in my mom’s backyard flaring their dewlap, leaping from one stem to another, or running across the deck only inches from my foot.

 

Or feel peace as a leaf drifts from a tree down to the ground in its own unique floating pattern.

Or track a bird flying across the clouds.

Or stop to listen to the trees sing as the wind stirs their leaves.

Or admire the purple flowers shaped like trumpets that I (probably mistakenly) call morning glories and which have sprung out of nowhere from one day to the next.

Or catch a glimpse of a coyote or a hawk.  

Or see the harvest moon rise up over the horizon, big and orange.

Not that wonder isn’t all around me. But that it can be too easy not to see it when the cement radiates heat up at me, the passing cars distract, or mosquitoes drive me inside.

But the wonder is there. If I take the time to notice.

If I pay attention.

Some days later, I find a different kind of wonder when I tag along with friends to a concert at the Grapevine Mills Grapefest to see another friend play piano with his band To-Jo, a Toto and Journey tribute band.

There, as the band warms up and does its soundcheck, I people watch and visit with my friends.

 

When the set starts, I sing along to the choruses I know, admire those who get up to dance (my dad would have), and, almost to my surprise (I don’t get out much), really enjoy myself.

As the band plays on, I’m reminded of the account I’d stumbled across one day while scrolling rather mindlessly online. NYC Preston Rakovsky videos himself asking people what makes them feel human and then (if possible) does that thing with them. After watching a few of his videos where one person said playing hopscotch made him feel human, another that getting matcha and having a conversation made her feel human, and another said taking a nap made her feel human, I’d reflected upon what I’d say if I was asked the same question.

I come up with two answers.

 

One: what makes me feel human is watching a play because there is this moment where I know it’s a play, that the stage is nothing more than boards, paper mache, or a painted backdrop, and that the actors are people pretending. And then, magically, at some point (like that unchartable moment between wakefulness and sleep), I’m transported beyond what I know is real and what I know is fake and am drawn into the play. It makes me feel human because it’s an agreed-upon arrangement between players and watchers using the species-specific trait of sharing a story with others.

Two: what makes me feel human is singing, singing in a choir, singing in a group, or listening to a choir or group use their voices together in melody or harmony, with language or wordless notes, with or without accompanying instruments. Singing or listening to singing make me feel human because it taps into something deep within me. Something that is not confined to only me. It’s a universal expression. It’s a transcendent form of connection.

There’s also something wonderful (yes, I’m feeling the wonder) about seeing people do a thing well. My friend plays well. And his band plays well. All in all, I’m feeling distinctly human.

And, in the moment, under a darkening Texas sky, with both friends and strangers around me, with music blaring through the speaker, tapping my foot in time to the beat, being human feels really good.

 

 

 

What makes you feel human?

 

 

 

 

 

Hoodoos, Paradise, and Birds

Just when I’ve begun to despair (which is a bit of a dramatic exaggeration but only a bit) of ever going on an adventure again, I somehow manage to invite myself or get invited along on my mom’s birding trip/commemorative anniversary trip.   

Mom’s going for the variety of hummingbirds and some other photographic catches like the elegant trogon and the yellow-eyed junco. I’m going for the mountains and the chance to officially add Arizona to my visited-states list (I had a layover in Phoenix once but, in the unwritten traveler’s code, airports don’t count as a location visit).

I tick off the days on my calendar and wrap up my work as best I can. For once in a long time, I’m leaving all my work behind. I’m taking a vacation. I can’t wait.  

Finally, the day arrives. We pack up the car, bid the house farewell, and zip away.

We drive across West Texas (which is prettier than I expected), stopover in Roswell to check out the aliens (the actual crash site is 70 miles away from Roswell, but Roswell has charmingly capitalized on the occurrence, extraterrestrial or otherwise), and, after crossing the full width of New Mexico, arrive in Portal, Arizona in time for a dark-cloud, mountain-menacing, large-raindrop downpour.

We love it.

Welcome to Arizona.

After the storm has passed, leaving the air cooler and the parched world water-touched, we unpack. Mom takes her camera, I take my book, and we sit on the back porch and drink in the view.

The mountains calm something within me. I settle and am soothed.

It reminds me of when I moved to Colorado, those long years ago, and felt like I’d come home. Like I’d finally come home.

I’m not meant for the city. Not long term.

The days pass too quickly, of course. But they are lovely. I spend the majority of time outside reading, watching birds, lizards, clouds, and laughing at the quail. Top knots bobbing, they come in like a committee let out of a conference room, making sounds like ridiculous videogame creatures, and dashing around like they have important places to be and essential actions to perform. I’m sure they do.

When they come, the thunderstorms blow in mostly from the west, though one arrives with fury from the east, bringing in lovely, lower temperatures and showy clouds.

The mosquitoes, as mosquitoes should if they must do anything at all, only come out at dusk.

And then there is the hiking.

One day, I tag along with my mom to a trail she’s said is supposed to be one of the best in the area for birding. Not having done my usual amount of location research, I hadn’t known we would be within a stone’s throw of the Coronado National Forest and the Chiricahua Wilderness.

With the knowledge and the evidence of both forest and wilderness in front of my face, I am filled with a sudden trail-lust. Or perhaps it’s love. Perhaps it’s always been love. I want to walk all these trails. I want to hike them until they’re familiar and well-known. I want to summit each of these peaks and see the views from the top.

This time, this day, this trail, we trek like proper hikers, fording the river again and again. On occasion, I leave my mom behind so she can stare into the trees until the bird she’s after cooperates enough for her to photograph it. Moving ever onward and then back the way I came, I breathe in the pine, the high-altitude air, and the spirit of the mountains.

Perhaps inspired by a recent post I’d made with the John Muir quote, “The mountains are calling and I must go,” or perhaps only by a coincidence of timing, one of my friends, still in Colorado, sends me a picture of a place we’d hiked together a lifetime ago which she, her partner, and two of their kids have just revisited, and asks, “When are you moving back to Colorado?”

Not soon enough. Maybe one day. Hopefully one day. I don’t know.

But I’ve got some mountains now.

After dark, I slip outside, careful to check for tarantulas, rattlesnakes, and other creatures, and stare up at the sky. The Milky Way films over the star spangled and black velvet backdrop of space like a wispy, elongated cloud. There is Scorpio and Sagitarius. In the north, the Big Dipper is easy to spot as well as the Little Dipper which pours into it. The familiar shape of Casiopeia twinkles back at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the bright, brief flash of a shooting star. 

The next morning, I drop my mom off at a hummingbird site and go to take on the Silver Peak trail on my own.

There is no river to cross on this side. The path is rocky. The shade sparse. The views spectacular. I climb steadily up and up. I’m the only one on the trail. I’m the only one in the world as the sun beats down upon my bare arms, marks my neck, and tries to get my face where my ballcap doesn’t shade it enough. When I stand still, when I listen, I hear nothing and no one until the wind makes the grass speak or an insect goes buzzing by. The whitest cloud I’ve ever seen rises from behind one peak, growing bigger and bigger.

I could stay here forever.

But I don’t. 

Tucking the joy of the natural world in around my heart, I go back down and retrieve my mom.

When we drive to the Chiricahua National Monument to see the hoodoos, the changing mountains, the scrubland, cacti, beargrass, prickly pear, cholla, and yucca is every Louis L’amour I’ve ever read (I’m pretty sure I read them all). If I close my eyes (which I don’t do since I’m the one driving), I can almost imagine I’m the cowboy hero riding my trusted steed and following the tracks in the desert sand.

And if I’m not seeing and imagining a Louis L’amour landscape then it’s Zane Grey’s Riders of the Purple Sage.

While I scramble up the large rocks into the heart of the grottos and sit again in a blessed cathedral of silence, my mom ambles farther down the trail to let fly a stardust handful of my dad’s ashes. It’s their anniversary day. Fifty years they had together. Three years now that my dad’s been gone.

The next day, my dad’s death day, we, once again, take him along and drive to Paradise.

On the narrow, rocky road up, my mom has to squeeze the car over to the very tightest edge as a truck barrels headlong down the path our way. Coming alongside, with only inches to spare between vehicles, the cheerful driver rolls down his window, asks us if we’re looking for the Walker house (we weren’t, but we could be), says it’s great for birding, tells us how to get there, and encourages us to talk to his wife Jackie who will show us all around.

When he’s managed to slide past without going over the side of the mountain or scraping his truck or our car, he trundles down and we continue on up.

Two seconds later, we encounter another car. This time, there’s more room though.

The driver rolls down his window and with gushing excitement he and his travel companion tell us about the lucifer hummingbird they’ve just photographically captured on an agave plant.

“It’s the bird of the trip, for me! I can’t speak for him,” the driver says pointing to his friend. “To get it in the wild, not on feeder…” He’s nearly speechless with joy.

Speaking over each other, they spend the next expanse of time telling us how to park and then climb down into the dry creek bed if we want to try to find the bird for ourselves.

But, having worn ourselves out the day before at the Chiricahua National Monument, we are not wanting a creek bed adventure today.

Instead, we go up to the George Walker house and get taken in hand by Jackie who points out birds for my mom while I sit and stare off into space, half listening, half watching, and very occasionally saying something.

On the way out, with a view that makes me catch my breath, we stop and once again, my mom lets loose another cloud of my dad’s ashes to fly out and stay forever in Paradise. 

Winding our way back down the road, this time without meeting anyone else, we drive away from Paradise.

The last morning in Portal, as I’m packing up, I feel sad. I didn’t expect to be quite so blue about leaving. But I am because there are still trails to explore, birds to find, and mountains to be made speechless by.

But for now, we have to leave it all behind.

We drive away, saying goodbye to the mountains as we go.

We drive back across the width of New Mexico and into Texas.

Despite being horrified by the crowded and unsightly cities of Sunland and Odessa, the trip is a success. Mom got her elegant trogon and a number of different hummingbirds (as well as plenty of other birds). We didn’t go up to a high enough elevation for her to find the yellow-eyed junco. So, for that, she’ll just have to plan another trip.

And if I’m lucky, if I’m not already in the mountains somewhere else, maybe I can invite myself or get invited along for that too.

 

 

 

Remembering How to Be Human

July is filled with human interaction. 

My niece (15) and nephew (11) come up to visit for a week with me and my mom. It was niece’s idea and she’s pulled it off.

The weekend before they arrive, my mom stocks up the pantry and fridge with food and prepares the guest rooms while I check in with my niece about her expectations. She says, “I don’t know if there’s anything we are set on doing. I know (11) likes birding and photography so I thought maybe he could do that with Lainey (my mom). I was gonna bring my laptop and I just thought it might be fun to write together or share what we are working on or whatever.” Which sounds great.  

But because my brain loves order and control, and has, in the recent past, had a tendency to lean toward anxiety when plans are too amorphous (and sometimes even when they’re not), I begin to prep myself for a disruption to my routines. I can probably get my workouts in. If I write at least one word a day in my current work-in-progress, that counts as writing and if my niece does want to write together that will be fun. I don’t have to stay up past my bedtime. I can get up at the usual hour.  

These days, too often, I feel that I’m as tricky to handle as a baby on a schedule. Worse, too often I worry I’ve lost the ability to have fun, be fun, appreciate fun.

In spite of myself, after (15), (11), and their mom arrive, I do have fun while we talk, prepare food, watch movies, do artwork, write, eat, and observe the birds and squirrels through the windows.

After waiting out a storm and watching a World Cup game, their mom leaves the next day in the late afternoon.  

Over the following days, I do manage to work in my workouts, write some words, and mostly get to sleep at a decent hour. I interact and respond. Look at how adaptive and flexible I am.

My older sister joins in on Thursday, coming to town by bus. As do my other nephew (7) and niece (5), brought to the house by their dad, my brother.

My mom treats us to a visit to the Dallas World Aquarium.

We’ve had to go in separate cars, so I’ve got the nephews. As we enter the DWA and loiter in the curving entryway to wait for our full party to arrive, gazing into the enclosures holding birds and into the streams of water below us featuring turtles or fish, my nephew (7) clings to my hand.

“I’m scared,” he tells me. One of the birds is loud. And noise has always affected my nephew to some extent.

“You’re fine. It can’t get to you. You’re safe. It’s only being loud,” I tell him.

But I get it, I’m often overstimulated by noise, activity, and (less now than before, probably because my eyes have gotten older) bright lights. I definitely get it. I’ve been having stress dreams this week and the previous one. As he’s always been, (7) is better than I am at vocalizing his feelings in the moment. My internal tendency is to ask myself, “What is wrong with you?” which is not a kind or necessarily helpful question to ask.

I should tell myself, the way I tell (7), “You’re fine. You’re safe. I’m here with you.”

We are all fine and safe at the Dallas World Aquarium and see many interesting creatures.

As we go from level to level, (7) alternates running free, holding my hand, taking my phone to snap photos of things like the axolotls and the manatee, and getting (11) to hold his hand (which is adorable and I wish I’d gotten a picture of it). 

Her eyes bright and her enthusiasm unmatched, (5) is thrilled to have her older cousin’s hand to hold and drags her all around the Aquarium. She doesn’t like things, she loves them.

 

 

(11) is most thrilled by the ocelot.

(15) likes the flamingos.

On Friday, after I manage to get in my morning walk which I grumpily alter to accommodate (7) who thinks the walk we are taking is his walk (can’t I be less grouchy and more fun even as I do everything he wants to do? I shouldn’t need two hours of morning quiet and a thousand cups of tea to be human) and my workout (by the grace of my mother who takes over breakfast prep because (5) cannot be persuaded to eat Cheerios and wants pancakes and I told her I’d make them for her after my walk), and (7) and (5) are picked up by their mom, I drive the correct ones back to the Hill Country and stay the weekend watching movies, World Cup games, coordinating meet up places with siblings, playing games, and sitting on couches together to read or chat. (11) graciously gives up his bed so I have a place to stay (I can’t quite manage driving the extra 50 miles to stay with my other brother in San Antonio and have to remind myself this is okay and not some kind of failure on my part). I manage to preserve a relatively good bedtime.

Sunday morning, I wake before everyone and do my best to be quiet as I make tea and try to keep the dogs happy while I read. I breathe in the aloneness. I breathe out the peace of solitude.

I’m reading another of Connie Willis’s books called Crosstalk which is all about communication, privacy, telepathy, and relationships and (with the main character constantly trying to find a place to hide to have enough time to simply think) is even more frenetic than my brain has felt recently.    

Thank goodness no one can read my thoughts or sense my emotions. What a mess that would be.

When the rest of the house wakes, I breathe in togetherness and breathe out connection.

Then it’s time to go.

With an audiobook to keep me company and a few stops along the way to get matcha lattes or fill the car with gas, I drive the 215 miles home.

Eventually, I pull into the driveway and cart my things into the house. I’ve done it, I’ve been social. I’ve survived a week full of activity. I’ve gone and come back again.

Now I want to live under a rock for the next month. I want to hide away beneath a book’s covers. I want to drink another million cups of tea. And yet, on the other side of that coin, I want to be more “normal” so that I don’t need so much recharge time.

There are all kinds of ways to be. There are phases of life that are easier or harder than others.

I think of the friend I stayed a summer with who told me, “You’re helping me remember how to be human.”

I think I need to be reminded of that myself as I continuously contemplate and act upon what it is to be alive and to live.

I think of what it is to be me. At this time of life. As who I am now.

It’s not always easy. But I’m doing my best. Which, sure, could be better (sometimes much much better), but, like my writing, I’m a work in progress. If I can get this draft down, I can improve upon it.