I awakened to the sun rising over the snow covered lake that sits outside my front windows. These windows frame my initial perspective for the day as I scan the landscape for inspiration, movement, irritating red squirrels or the bowing of the treetops indicating the wind’s intensity or lack there of, for the day ahead. The sun was hitting just so, as to nearly blind me to all else. It grabbed me, “Pay attention!!”. So I did. I shed my sleepy eyes, rolling reluctantly into the day. As the sun’s rays slowly rose they allowed me a more complete vision, other forms coming into focus. A figure moving at the edge of the frozen lake caught my eye. It was an otter, it’s dark body striking against the white snow, it’s roller coaster spinal movements and it’s sleek, tubular physique undeniable. I wonder if she, (an assumption, I understand) like me, wonders how long it will be before we can both dive into the depths. I consider an otter a hopeful sight, not just for it’s unique animal beauty, but for it’s ability to inspire contemplation around my own ability to move fluidly & playfully through the simplicity of the north woods.
My mind acclimated from playful otter to cup of Irish Breakfast tea when 100 yards out movement again caught my eye. I saw my red fox prancing across the frozen lake, offering it’s own distinctive gait, head slightly dipped but eyes laser focused, ever scanning for both predators and prey. The thick fur of the tail trailed the core of the body proudly, not only stunning in it’s fullness, but near doubling the length of this beautiful being and I’m guessing offering him (another assumption) a kind of reverse radar, a sensing of what is behind, maybe even what has been. I consider this fox an unwitting friend, as I see him every so often traversing our property in search of sustenance, I suppose, like we all are. One day as I was diving into my therapy trio of stretching, contemplating and writing this one trots right by the sliding glass door that defines my outdoor scene, displaying striking red fur and a thick tail of the same red, dotted with black and finally moving to the whitest of tips at the tail. He didn’t look my way, focused on his mission. Fables interpret foxes as sly, clever, tricksters. I believe that. I lose him as he reaches the northern edge of the bay and ventures into the trees.
I remind myself of my good fortune to live amongst this stunning grandeur. Just last evening the weather was so unexpectedly pleasant it allowed Elliott and I to enjoy some deck sitting, granted, with our heater alight. I saw a deer canter out from the south onto this same frozen bay. We watched, the natural beauty ever captivating. Then another followed and another. It was a caravan, a half dozen cantering across this same bay heading to the same area the fox aimed for. How different their body shapes and the cadence of their movements. We sprinkled some black oiled sunflower seeds on the railing of our deck for the Chickadees and Finches. (Better than a feeder which inspires too many food battles!) We placed them directly in front of where we sat and they came, in their kind of dive-bombing descent from their respective branches, bold as can be, landing, hopping a couple of times, grabbing a treasure then scooting back to the safety of the high perch. I had my moccasined feet resting on the lower railing of the deck and much to my surprise and pleasure, a Chickadee landed on my foot, our eyes momentarily locking, as it uttered its Chickadee chirp (was that a thank you?) then hopped onto the upper railing to grab a seed and flee.
My morning ritual of looking, and really seeing, continually reminds me of the sweeping beauty of this place I am now fortunate enough to call home, with all it’s many species, each of us looking for our own form of nourishment to get us through this long cold winter, and hopefully finding it. I didn’t witness the return trip of the otter, the fox or the deer, but I know they will visit again as we all honor our necessary routines. This knowledge keeps me hopeful and on the lookout for more natural moments of gratitude.
Tricia Schwaba 2020