The real things haven’t changed. It is still best to honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures; and have courage when things go wrong. –Laura Ingalls Wilder

I confess that I’m easily entertained these days. Perhaps I’ve always been so. But in these final weeks of summer, I’m already lamenting the loss of simple pleasures I’ve come to enjoy. The older I get, the more I appreciate the power of such pleasures to transform my day.

And I’m in good company with poet Robert Frost, whose little poem, “Dust of Snow,” speaks of saving the day with something as simple, yet pleasurable, as snow released from a tree branch:

Dust of Snow

The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.

How many times have such simple pleasures “saved a part of a day I had rued”? Far too many to count. The kitten in the photo above is one of many (can you really have too many kittens?) born to my farm cats this summer. Tortie, one of my favorites, runs up to me the moment I open the door. Spending just a few moments with her is mood-changing and life-affirming. As is watching my koi come up from the depths to eat the fish food I throw in handfuls across the pond each evening. It’s a good night if at least two of the six make their presence, their dorsal fins breaking the water’s surface as they compete with sunfish, bass, and catfish for food. It’s an even better night if all six emerge flashing their orange, black, and white scales. And it’s a great night when Geraldine, my grandson’s duck, beelines it from her hidey-hole in the cattails and joins the menagerie. When the weather turns and the water cools, this nightly ritual is a simple pleasure I’ll really miss.

In Edith Wharton’s novel, Summer, she writes of ordinary pleasures that prompt us to abandon thinking and become “immersed in an inarticulate well-being.” There’s something about sitting on my screened porch as I watch the rose-breasted grosbeaks and finches at the bird feeders that evokes a sense of inarticulate well-being. Even on days when it would’ve been much more comfortable to sit in my air-conditioned house, I’ve chosen the screened porch. For I know these summer days are short, and soon enough, I’ll move the plants indoors and cover the patio furniture for the winter.

And what about the pleasure of homemade ice cream? As good as the first bowl is, licking the dasher after the ice cream maker finally stops might be even better. My family will attest that I’ve been a glutton with the dasher, for the first taste of homemade ice cream is divine. In Farewell Summer, American novelist Ray Bradbury writes, “I never in my life argued with a piece of cake or a bowl of ice cream.” Yes, the simple pleasure of tasting something wonderful requires no explanation and no defense. I’ve made it known to family and friends that, if I could choose one thing for my last meal on earth, it would be a 9 x 13 pan of Scotcharoos, which I’d consume in one sitting, relishing every crumb. The simple pleasure of Rice Krispies and peanut butter and chocolate defies words.

As I was walking at dawn last week, the eastern sky blazed in colors my granddad would’ve called “sky-blue-pink.” When my alarm went off at 6, I was tempted to roll over and walk later in the day. But as poet and children’s writer Shel Silverstein insists, “It’s amazing the difference a bit of sky can make.” And this was exactly it. For 45 glorious minutes, I marveled at the sky I would’ve missed if I hadn’t hauled myself out of bed. That sky made all the difference in the world.

And then there’s the sweet weight of a sleeping baby on your chest. As I held my new grandson, Carter, the other night, I felt him nestle into the hollow beneath my shoulder, and I remembered all the nights I’d held my infant children, the moon streaming in through the window by the rocking chair, the house silent, and the knowledge there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. We may be able to bring peace to warring factions if we just put sleeping babies in their leaders’ arms.

Irish poet William Butler Yeats claimed that “[t]he world is full of magical things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” Perhaps simple pleasures aren’t really all that simple, but rather “magical” and waiting for “our senses to grow sharper.” When an indigo bunting sighting or a slice of freshly baked bread can “save some part of a day I had rued,” perhaps these pleasures are as transformative and deeply gratifying as any. Perhaps, they are more.

My grandson Carter

How fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks. —Dorothy L. Sayers

Geraldine is my summer pond buddy. When she hears my front door open—200 yards up the lane—she begins to quack as she leaves the pond and waddles up to greet me. Generally we meet halfway. As we work our way down to the pond, she stays at my side all the way to the bench at the eastern edge of the pond. This is the feeding spot, the place where I dig into the coffee can of fish food and fling handfuls of pellets across the pond. The second the pellets hit the water, it churns with sunfish, bass, catfish, and koi. These are National Geographic-worthy feeding frenzies as hundreds of fish attack the surface, which boils with activity.

And this is the sweet spot for Geraldine, for I always drop the first handful of food on the ground for her and then drop handfuls near the shoreline where she doesn’t have to fight off the sunfish. She’s the lone survivor of a group of ducklings my daughter and son-in-law raised in their garage and later transferred to the pond. For years, they’ve bought ducklings in the spring at the local farm implement store, and we’ve watched them grow under the heat lamp in their garage pen. And for years, we’ve lamented the dismal survival rate at the pond where predators—mostly foxes—pick them off much too quickly. One year, we lost 6 of the 13 ducks on their first night at the pond. The others disappeared over the course of a week. Geraldine is our Freya, our Norse goddess of war and love who has already made her mark in pond mythology. She’s the stuff duck legends are made of, eluding predators for months and living companionably with the pond fish.

Because I live in the country and because I’m too old to care (much), I talk to Geraldine as we stroll to the pond each evening. When she refuses to move from the middle of the lane, I put my car in park, get out, and urge her toward the pond with the diplomacy she deserves. Because Geraldine is so social (or so foolhardy?), I have to tighten the leash on our young Labrador who’d like nothing more than to practice her retrieval skills on such an easy mark. Just the other day when I walked down to our mailbox, I looked back to see Geraldine hoofing it toward me. You gotta love a duck like her who’s remarkably sociable in every circumstance. She’s a feathered testament to English novelist and playwright Dorothy Sayers’ contention that “all human passions are fleeting compared with the massive continuity of ducks.”

My father, Nebraska poet Don Welch, claimed that “[w]e know ourselves through corresponding things” and that “the supreme value of a thing may be its thingness, its irreducible, but wonderful value; its one-of-a-kindness.” This summer, as I’ve walked at the nature preserve or around our pond, I’ve discovered the thingness, that irreducible value of so many things: orange butterfly weed, indigo buntings, Queen Anne’s Lace, sunfish spawning beds, Baltimore orioles, and one beloved duck named Geraldine. I’ve seen the human condition in the indigo bunting, which appears as a dark, ordinary bird until a sunray ignites it, and it bursts into a cerulean and otherworldly brilliance. Isn’t this the way for most of us, how we don’t shine until another’s light falls upon us? I’ve looked daily for orange blossoms along the trail where, for weeks, butterfly weed blazed along the road. Until it didn’t, and I mourned the occasional orange that punctuated the fields of coneflowers and Black-eyed Susans. Weeks later, when it bloomed again, I was reminded that “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die” (Ecclesiastes 3: 1-2). And each evening when Geraldine meets me on the lane, and we begin our trek to the eastern edge of the pond, I marvel at her constancy, that regardless of the day I’ve had, she shows up. I’ve learned this about myself: how grateful I am for this constancy, a rare gift in any season of life. My father was right: “We know ourselves through corresponding things.”

One look at Geraldine reveals her mallard blood. Even though she’s been bred and raised domestically, I’m pulling for her to migrate south this fall before the pond freezes over. I hope she hears the call of her wild cousins as they fly over. I hope she’s got the wings and instinct to join them. And I hope that, as much as I value her companionship, I’ll celebrate her leaving.

Between the Raecke sisters and my sisters, we had a menagerie of Barbies. I use the term “Barbies” loosely for both official and unofficial Barbies. Our collection was vast and unique: 1) Calico Lassie, an Ellie Mae Clampett look-alike, ordered from the back of a Kellogg’s box; 2) Betsy McCall, a 1951 McCall’s Magazine paper doll that became an 8-inch poseable plastic doll (ours only had one leg—we use and abused our dolls!—who was always delegated as the handicapped daughter); 3) Skipper, Barbie’s younger sister (the real deal from the Mattel Company); 4) Johnny and Jane West, 1966-67 Marx Company cowboy/cowgirl dolls, complete with their horses, Thunderbolt and Blaze; 5) a host of generic dime store Barbie clones whose hair we often chopped off because we were short on males; and 6) Midge, Barbie’s best friend released by Mattel in 1963 and the crown jewel in our menagerie.

The original Mattel Barbie doll was 11.5 inches tall, small enough to carry around yet large enough to dress easily. If she were a real woman, however, her measurements would be 36-18-33. Barbie was a top-heavy bombshell, a far cry from the baby dolls that had previously flooded the market. Needless to say, her debut in 1959 was met with criticism. Some argued that she looked much too mature to be a child’s doll. To counter this criticism, Mattel released Midge, who had a fuller, gentler face but shared the same proportions so that the best friends could share clothes.

While I was the proud owner of Calico Lassie, the $4.99 bargain from the back of the Kellogg’s Sugar Pops box, my sister owned Midge, the first official Barbie in our family. Midge was a celebrity in our motley crew of Barbie clones. Midge, with her red flipped hairdo and freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose, was legendary on West 27th Street. We never dreamt of cutting her hair. That would be sacrilege.

Years after our Barbie-playing days were over, my mom was preparing for a garage sale when she inquired about the tote of Barbies in our basement. Did we want them? Any? All? Unthinkingly, perhaps foolishly, we said no. And so, they were included with other garage sale treasures and sold for pennies. Calico Lassie, Betsy McCall, Johnnie and Jane West, Thunderbolt and Blaze, my entire collection of Breyer horses, and assorted Barbie clones—all gone. At the time, we barely registered this loss, for as college students, we couldn’t imagine that we’d one day grieve our decision to sell them.

As I was cleaning a closet last week, I discovered a small tote of my son’s Transformers, beloved toys that escaped the garage sale I’d held years ago when we moved from town to the country. What didn’t escape, however—a decision I truly regret—was his extensive collection of Pokemon cards. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I remember the Barbie lesson I’d learned? How could I so cavalierly spread years of card-collecting over a garage sale table laden with clothing items and kitchen wares? When I asked Quinn if he wanted to keep them, he showed little interest and said, “Just sell them.” But why did I listen to him? I’d said the same thing to my mom and lived to regret it.

Today, the original Midge would bring a pretty penny, especially if one had the foresight to keep her original box and clothing. Likewise, many of Quinn’s Pokemon cards would bring top dollar, for he’d stored them in plastic sleeves to protect them. But for me—and I suspect others—the monetary value of old toys and collectibles isn’t really the issue. We mourn the loss of these treasures, for they’re tangible remnants of our childhood. Just holding them transports us to those halcyon days of neighborhood Barbie fests and card trading sessions with friends. It takes us back to those days when, after saving our allowance for months, we could finally buy another pack of cards or Barbie outfit. I’m not sure any purchases I’ve made since have been quite as sweet.

And there’s something sweet about watching our grandchildren play with the very toys or collect the very things that we did. Our dolls may be worse for wear, their hair long since unflipped and limbs missing, but they’re loved anew. Our former collections may seem silly to some today, but they’re often treasured by grandchildren who love them because we loved them first.

As I mourn Midge and other childhood treasures I’ve lost, I know that I could find them on eBay if I were willing to pay. For a price (generally a hefty price!), I could replace them. But I’ll rest in my memories of them. I can close my eyes and return to my childhood bedroom with Calico Lassie, who’s meeting up with her new friend, Jane West. I can see Jane, with her bendy legs, mount her horse, Blaze, and Calico Lassie, with her frustratingly straight legs, resort to riding side-saddle on a Breyer Appaloosa. I can still see it all, and this delight me more than I say.

I want to wish a Happy 1st Father’s Day to my son, Quinn, who became a father a week ago. What a bounty of joy to welcome my grandson and to witness my son so naturally assume the role of father. Welcome to the world, Carter Andrew Vesely, and welcome to fatherhood, Quinn.

The Poem I Cannot Write
—for Carter Andrew Vesely with much love from your Grandma Shannon

When you were born,
the vault of my heart swung open,
and all my words were swept away 
in the great torrent of my love.

But even if the dam had not burst—
my best words still eager for release—
what page could hold such joy?

The poem I cannot write is here
in your small ears which curl like fox kits
into this nest of black hair
so dearly like your father’s,

and here in your mother’s eyes 
which cradle you even as you sleep 
in the bassinet across the room.

It is here in the years which take me back
to the day I met your father,
a miracle, too,
who left me speechless and smitten 
and forever changed.

And it is here in the tide of arms 
which pull you onto the long shore of family
stretching deeper and wider than you can imagine.

The poem I cannot write is a locket
which holds a single word:

You.

I have often wondered whether especially those days when we are forced to remain idle are not precisely the days spent in the most profound activity. Whether our actions themselves, even if they do not take place until later, are nothing more than the last reverberations of a vast movement that occurs within us during idle days.

In any case, it is very important to be idle with confidence, with devotion, possibly even with joy.
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters on Life 

In a few weeks, I’ll become a grandmother again when my son and daughter-in-law’s baby is born. For many of us, I suspect that the joy of welcoming a new grandchild is matched only by the joy of watching our children become parents. It’s been nearly 13 years since my grandson, Griffin, was born. This was the last time I spent hours holding a baby. The last time I felt the kind of idleness of rocking a sleeping child and surrendering to the kind of stillness that whispers, “You are right where you’re supposed to be, doing exactly what you’re called to do.” This is the kind of idleness you can own with “confidence, with devotion,” and most definitely with “joy.” And paradoxically, this idleness often results in the “most profound activity.”

Best known for his Christian allegory, Pilgrim’s Progress, English writer and preacher John Bunyan claimed that “[i]f we have not quiet in our minds, outward comfort will do no more for us than a golden slipper on a gouty foot.” Too often, I’m guilty of seeking “outward comforts” as I reach for my phone or computer, scrolling through posts and videos that invariably lead me down one fruitless rabbit hole after another. When I could—and should—cultivate silence and stillness, I don’t. The images and words that lure me, promising relief from my “gouty” self, tease me with “golden slippers,” which are little more than tantalizing distractions. As they fall away, I’m left with a vacuum that, as Aristotle contended, nature abhors.

Some may argue that, indeed, human nature increasingly abhors a vacuum. In his 1971 novel, Angle of Repose, American writer, environmentalist, and historian Wallace Stegner lamented the many ways we fill our silences:

[The modern age] knows nothing about isolation and nothing about silence. In our quietest and loneliest hour the automatic ice-maker in the refrigerator will cluck and drop an ice cube, the automatic dishwasher will sigh through its changes, a plane will drone over, the nearest freeway will vibrate the air. Red and white lights will pass in the sky, lights will shine along highways and glance off windows. There is always a radio that can be turned to some all-night station, or a television set to turn artificial moonlight into the flickering images of the late show. We can put on a turntable whatever consolation we most respond to, Mozart or Copland or the Grateful Dead.

Of course, if Stegner were alive today, undoubtedly he’d substitute cell phones and streaming services for televisions and turntables. Still, his claims that the modern age doesn’t understand—or value—isolation and silence are founded. We walk and run with earbuds, filling the miles with podcasts and music. We clean our homes and work to our favorite playlists. We subscribe to services like Audible so we can work and drive while listening to books it’s unlikely we’ll sit down to read. Nearly a half-century ago, Stegner understood that, even if we didn’t consciously fill our days with noise, the noise would be there nonetheless, filling our silence and assuring us we aren’t alone.

But there are others, like 14th-century German Catholic priest and mystic Meister Eckhart, who caution against rushing to fill the vacuum, for “[n]othing in all creation is so like God as stillness.” American writer and naturalist Annie Dillard agrees. She contends that “[w]henever there is stillness there is the still small voice, God’s speaking from the whirlwind, nature’s old song, and dance.” And in an oft-quoted scripture, the Sons of Korah, authors of one of the Bible’s oldest psalms, exhort us to “Be still and know that I am God.” [Ps. 46:10] Even as we fill our lives with noise and activity, most of us know—consciously or unconsciously—that to be silent and still is to embrace what St. Augustine calls that “delightful hidden place inside where we can be free of noise and argument.” I think it’s safe to argue that most of us crave a space “free of noise and argument”—for a time, at least. Without this space and its sacred stillness, we struggle to hear God speak. Without this space, St. Augustine contends, “there is no room for reflection in our lives.” And in this space, American author and political activist Marianne Williamson claims we might “create a world that reflects the heart instead of shattering it.”

The world has always been a heart-shattering place. We lose those we love to illness and death, to distance and hurt. Despite our best efforts, we fail to stave off suffering and scarcity. We push through our days treading water, fearful that if we stop moving, we’re losing. In the process, our hearts shatter from exhaustion and fear and loss. In the face of such chaos, however, Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist Viktor Frankl explains: “You can either panic or pause; choose stillness.” We might argue that this is so much easier said than done. And to this objection, we might do well to remember that Frankl survived four concentration camps, choosing stillness in the midst of chaos and suffering we can only imagine.

Years ago, I chose to “pause” when I walked. This was—and continues to be—one of the best choices I’ve made. I walk in silence. Through the miles, I cultivate the mental and spiritual stillness that too often eludes me unless I’m walking. French painter Henri Matisse understood the power of such stillness, arguing that “[c]reativity requires stillness; it only flourishes in the silence of thought.” As a writer, I compose when I’m walking, for my best words are born “in the silence of thought.” If I fill my time on the trail with others’ words, there’s no room for mine. Over the years, I’ve learned to protect the stillness that prompts creativity.

And soon enough, I will protect the time I have with my new grandson, too, relishing hours in a rocking chair where I can be confidently and joyfully idle, my heart and mind profoundly still. And remarkably full.

image credit: Dawn Scranton from Cornwall, Ontario, Canada, CC BY 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

The all-blue male Indigo Bunting sings with cheerful gusto and looks like a scrap of sky with wings. Sometimes nicknamed “blue canaries,” these brilliantly colored yet widespread birds whistle their bouncy songs through the late spring and summer all over eastern North America. —Cornell Lab, All About Birds

It’s no secret that, for years, I’ve harbored a healthy (mostly!) obsession with the indigo bunting. I’ve crept as slowly and quietly as humanly possible down gravel roads towards the silhouette of an indigo bunting in the tall grasses. Certain that I’ve heard one in the timber, I’ve stalked about my yard, searching tree tops for the elusive bird. When I spotted an indigo bunting on our bird feeder—a miracle that occurred only once—I fell to my knees, fearful my shadow would frighten it away, and crawled across my dining room floor to take a photo of it. After years of hunting the indigo bunting, I can spot them in the tree tops or on power lines—even in the shadows or on cloudy days when the sun doesn’t ignite their signature cerulean blue. I know their song and silhouette. I’m a fan for life.

Paradoxically, indigo buntings, like all blue birds, have no blue pigment. Similar to particles in the air that make the sky look blue, they possess microscopic structures in their feathers that refract and reflect blue light. This is why they appear brown-black until a ray of sun hits them, and they burst into color and become a “scrap of sky with wings.” I was walking early one morning when the clouds parted, and the sun broke through. In that moment, I looked up as I passed beneath a utility wire and witnessed the small, dark silhouette of an indigo bunting explode into an otherworldly blue. I stood and watched until a cloud covered the sun, and the bunting was once again transformed, its brilliance a lingering memory.

That the indigo bunting often appears as another dark-colored songbird, becoming remarkable only in the presence of light, is an apt metaphor for the human condition. Most of us are unremarkable in the sense that we’re simply one of 8.3 billion people in the world, one more living, breathing human. Some of us rise to public significance through our own efforts and talents. Most of us, however, do not. We are unremarkable figures living ordinary lives. Until we come into the light of one who sees us. Until we find ourselves in the presence of one through whom we can reflect and refract the light that’s uniquely and remarkably ours.

For 12 years, I watched my son’s football career. He’d proven himself as an exceptional football player during his high school career and summer camps throughout the Midwest. He’d competed and distinguished himself at a regional football combine in Indianapolis. He was recruited by a Division II university throughout his senior year, fielding weekly phone calls from the coach. In the light of this university program, he was wanted and seen. Until he wasn’t. Several weeks after he reported as a freshman and had begun practicing, he fell off their radar. What happened in those weeks to relegate him to the shadows? I thought about this a lot over the years and finally decided that the coaches simply stopped looking at him. I recalled all the well-meaning advice from coaches and agents: Be coachable. Be tough. Work hard. Show up. Learn from your mistakes. And the implicit message is that if you do all these things, you’ll succeed. In short, you’ll play. Although this is true for some, sadly, it’s not true for many others. You might work hard, play with grit and passion, do and be all the things coaches say they desire, and sit the bench. For if no one is looking at you, you’re just as invisible as you might be if you didn’t work hard, hone your talents, and aspire to improve.

For 4 1/2 years, my son conditioned and practiced—in and out of season—for a total of one minute of collegiate varsity football play. I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the courage and conviction he called upon to stay the course. He had the talent and desire, qualities that might’ve shone under a coach’s light. Yet, isn’t his story just another example of the human condition? We are all uniquely and wonderfully made, and like the indigo bunting, long to emerge from the shadows, to be transformed in the light of another’s interest and care.

Over the course of my teaching career, there were so many students who lived in the shadows of my classrooms. Most often, they sat in the back of the room, spoke little, and left class quickly. I checked them off on my attendance list and marked their grades in my gradebook, but regrettably, I didn’t really see them. Oh, I begin to see some as they emerged through their writing. Still, there were others who came and left my courses, largely unseen. I understand that it’s nearly impossible to devote real time and attention to each individual when you’re teaching 150 students per term, but I regret that I couldn’t. There were thousands of “blue canaries” in my classrooms just waiting to shine in the light of one who would see them.

And how many times have I failed to see my loved ones and friends? How many times have I consciously or unconsciously withheld the light through which they could be seen? Too many times, I’m afraid. I suppose this, too, is characteristic of our human condition: the way we often make ourselves the center of our own universes, ignoring and forsaking others—even those we love. And when we do, we leave them as dark silhouettes in the tree tops, as we turn our lights on ourselves in hopes of reflecting and refracting something brilliant.

When I think of the indigo bunting, I recall David’s words in Psalm 139. In God’s light, we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” We are “not hidden” but seen. We don’t remain dark, unremarkable silhouettes but instead reflect and refract a holy and transforming light:

¹³ You created my inmost being;
    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
¹⁴ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
    your works are wonderful,
    I know that full well.
¹⁵ My frame was not hidden from you
    when I was made in the secret place,
    when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
¹⁶ Your eyes saw my unformed body;
    all the days ordained for me were written in your book
    before one of them came to be. [Psalm 139: 13-16]

Just yesterday, as I was walking mid-afternoon, an indigo bunting sheared the airspace in front of me, a cerulean flash that stopped me in my tracks. “Look at that!” I gasped. As I’ve aged, I’ve found I speak the words I used to only think. And I speak them with abandon, not caring if anyone hears me. Because the wonder of an indigo bunting deserves such a declaration. Because when we speak these things aloud, we also bring them into the light. And because there is brilliance all around us, if we have eyes to see and light to shine upon them.

Here’s to all the mothers who perform ordinary, behind-the-scenes acts of love and service. We wouldn’t be who we are without you. And Happy Heavenly Mother’s Day to my mom, Marcia, who braved many high track meets in the most abysmal Nebraska weather. You’re my hero.

My Mother's Raincoat

was nothing but a 2-ply, black 
plastic garbage bag
with a single hole punched through
for her head.

And huddled in the McCook High School bleachers,
beside another mother
who, too, had grown into such a poncho,
she watched the Girl's District Track Meet
below.

It was spring in Nebraska,
and the northwest wind blew in sleet from Wyoming,
pelted the garbage bags
and the cotton sweatsuits of runners
in the infield.

Beneath green sun visors
keeping drizzle from their eyes,
my mother and her friend looked on
and waved.

And standing alone 
at the start of the 440 yard run,
I fumbled to undo the string of my sweatpants.
The lucky beads I always wore around my neck
were not there, and there was nothing
but cold to hold me up.

Until I saw my mother's garbage bag
and remembered that tucked beneath it,
she kept graham crackers and Hershey bars,
chapstick and peppermints.
Underneath all that wind-whipped plastic
were hands that would rub out the cold
and drive me home.

Underneath it all--
and in spite of the sneers from other runners
who laughed long at the sight of two women in bags--
was the mother who, years later, would stand on the front terrace,
curbside, who would wave until
I turned the corner, and she could see me
no more.

Will she ever know the times I circled the block,
hoping that she hadn't yet gone inside,
hoping to see her waving again,
huddled beneath another makeshift poncho,
a single note of clear, green light
falling through her visor.

—Shannon Vesely

A woodpecker’s drilling echoes to the mountain clouds. –Dakotsu Iida, Japanese haiku poet

When I first saw this graphic of a woodpecker’s amazing tongue, I was gobsmacked. For years, I’ve watched Red-headed Woodpeckers bully the songbirds in our yard, chasing them from the feeders as they monopolize the supply of black-oiled sunflower seeds. With their bright crimson heads and long beaks, I’ve always thought them to be sharp-looking birds. But until recently, I had no idea that a woodpecker’s tongue, a unique anatomical feature, makes the species truly remarkable. In her article “Built-In Helmet: How the Woodpecker’s Tongue Protects Its Brain” (AZ Animals), Kellianne Matthews writes that “[t]he woodpecker’s tongue functions as a delicate sensor, a lethal spear, and a life-saving helmet, all at once.”

The woodpecker’s tongue is much longer than its beak, extending back into its skull and even wrapping around it. According to the American Bird Conservancy, “The total length of a woodpecker tongue can be up to a third of the bird’s total body length, although the exact proportions vary from species to species. This includes both the part that sticks out past the end of the beak, and the part that stays anchored in the head. If our tongues were the same proportion, they would be around two feet long!” Many believe the woodpecker’s tongue is a shock-absorbing miracle, protecting the bird’s brain from the force and potential trauma from its pecking. Woodpeckers slam their beaks into trees on average 20 times per second. Whereas some have credited the woodpecker’s tongue as protection from these concussive blows, others claim the bird’s skull bone, which is spongy, acts as a kind of “airbag” for the brain. Still others believe that the size and orientation of the woodpecker’s brain protect it, for even the strongest blows results in less than 60% of the pressure needed to give humans a concussion.

As I read more about this biological phenomenon, I begin to appreciate its metaphorical value. Who doesn’t need some serious brain protection, the type that keeps you from getting concussed and the type that keeps you from speaking or writing unfiltered thoughts? Although I haven’t suffered a concussion, I have suffered too many occasions when my thoughts became words I desperately wished I could retract the moment they were spoken. James the Just, half-brother to Jesus, admonishes us when he writes that all kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and sea creatures are being tamed and have been tamed by mankind, but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison (James 3: 7-8). What if I had a metaphorical, self-regulating tongue that instinctively went to work, covering my brain, taming my ill-formed thoughts, bridling my speech, and buying me time to carefully consider what I wanted to say and how to say it? What if such a tongue could protect me from my worst, most poisonous self?

I fear we’ve become a people proficient at pecking. We do much of this from a keypad as we pound out missives through every digital means. From the anonymity and security of our homes, we peck at a speed rivalling that of woodpeckers. Too often, we immediately voice our outrage in response to digital posts that may or may not be true. For who has time to fact-check or consider the validity of sources? Better to peck, peck, peck quickly in righteous indignation. But what if we all had woodpeckers’ tongues? At the very least, they might delay extreme rhetoric until our cooler heads prevail; at best, they might bridle our brains, giving us the time and desire for the discernment we find sorely lacking in much of today’s discourse.

And what if these metaphorical tongues could protect us from the percussive blows of others, from the slings and arrows of sharp tongues? What if we were shielded from the strikes of name-calling and gaslighting, the jabs of belittling and accusing? What if we never suffered the concussions of such hostility? Now, that would be something.

Just yesterday, a Red-headed Woodpecker swooped in from the timber moments after I’d refilled the bird feeders. As I watched him clear the finches and settle in for a leisurely lunch, I felt as if I could see beneath his feathers to where his amazing tongue looped around his brain and snaked through his beak. And watching him eat, I said—aloud and to no one in particular—oh, to have a tongue like that!

photo credit: Félix Arnaudin

Unless you are educated in metaphor, you are not safe to be let loose in the world. —Robert Frost

Personally, I’m all for being “educated in metaphor.” And I hope, by Robert Frost’s standards, that having schooled myself in metaphor, I’m safe to be loose in the world. My father, poet Don Welch, argued that metaphor is first founded on something’s “thingness, its irreducible, but wonderful value, its one-of-a kindness.” Things must be first valued for their “thingness” before they’re valued for what they might represent. The things of the world, my father claimed, “are the material of surprising comparisons and resonance.”

Perhaps the greatest gift my parents gave me was a love for metaphor, the eagerness to love a thing for its own sake and for what it might represent. What a marvel it is to let things transport you from the literal into the symbolic. Metaphor can take you on a remarkable journey, if you have eyes to see.

A few years ago, I discovered this photo of a group of French stilt walkers. I was fascinated with the black and white images of these men and thought immediately of my own history with stilts. One Christmas, my sister, Timaree, and I received a pair of stilts and a pogo stick. We vowed to master the stilts first. And though our pair only elevated us a foot off the ground, we proudly stomped up and down the sidewalk in front of our house, showing off our newly acquired skills.

In this photo, the shepherds of the French Landes region used wooden stilts that elevated them considerably higher off the ground on what the locals called “Tchangues” or “big legs.” In a September 26, 1891, Scientific American Supplement article, the authors describe their fascination with these stilt-walkers:

The shepherds of Landes… acquire an extraordinary freedom and skill … [the shepherd] knows very well how to preserve his equilibrium; he walks with great strides, stands upright, runs with agility, or executes a few feats of true acrobatism, such as picking up a pebble from the ground, plucking a flower, simulating a fall and quickly rising, running on one foot, etc.

Located in southwest France, Landes is a marshland with few roads, which makes travel challenging. Enter the stilt-walking shepherds, whose unique invention allowed them to travel efficiently by staying above the soggy marshes and, from this vantage point, to keep watch for predators.

In the late 1800s, Félix Arnaudin, a photographer who specialized in Haute-Lande folklore, set out to record the shepherds’ way of life, for he feared that in time, it would be forgotten. In an article from SimilarWorlds.com, the authors describe how Arnaudin captures these shepherds “as tall, ghostly silhouettes on the flat horizon—figures shaped by wind, mud, and patience,” their “balance, a quiet defiance against the elements.” His photographs have prompted others to marvel at these stilt-walking shepherds. In her article, “Rare Photos Of France’s Stilt-Walking Shepherds: Grassland Life From 1843 To 1937” (historyinsider.com), Phyllis Brown writes that although no one is certain about when this stilt-walking practice began, it was first noted in the 18th century. She explains that “[m]oving on stilts allowed the shepherds to match the speed of a trotting horse, making it easier for them to watch over their sheep and cover more ground in the expansive heathlands.”

These men are remarkable enough for their thingness as stilt-walking shepherds. But they are remarkable, too, as metaphors. In them, we can see symbols of human tenacity and spirit, of the desire to literally rise above the Earth to overcome the environmental challenges before us. And through them, we might also see the desire to figuratively rise above the world’s pain and suffering, to elevate ourselves above the muck and mire of life. For what might we see from such a height? What predators and pitfalls might we avoid? Imagine strapping on a pair of metaphorical “big legs” and rising above whatever the day throws at us as we move with ease through the world’s trials. Now, that would be something.

And imagine being a part of the Artemis II crew, looking down at the Earth from space. What perspective might this afford? How might it feel to rise thousands of miles above the Earth and life as we know it? The commander of the Artemis II crew, NASA’s Reid Wiseman, shared his insights:

This was not easy being 200,000-plus miles away from home. . . Like, before you launch it feels like it’s the greatest dream on Earth, and when you’re out there, you just want to get back to your families and your friends. It’s a special thing to be a human and it’s a special thing to be on planet Earth.

As I read Wiseman’s words, I thought of these lines from Robert Frost’s poem, “Birches”:

I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:
I don’t know where it's likely to go better.

Perhaps the stilt-walking shepherds, like the astronauts of the Artemis II crew, shared this paradoxical desire: to “get away from earth awhile,” but to return to the “right place for love,” that beautiful and painful place we call home. Perhaps, as Frost concludes, to rise and return “would be good both going and coming back.”

He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. Matthew 28:6

From an early age, I found myself living vicariously through the suffering of others. My mother recalled that as our family gathered around our big console TV set, and the theme song of the television series, Lassie, began, she would look over at me to find I’d already begun to cry. During each episode, as someone was lost or hurt, I’d be on the edge of my seat, anticipating the impending loss with tears. So, you might imagine how I responded when I first watched Mel Gibson’s film, The Passion of the Christ. For me—and I suspect for many—the viewing was excruciating, my gut churning, my muscles clenched, and every sinew twitching in response to Jim Caveziel’s portrayal of Christ’s agony in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross. Although I always believed that I would, that I must see the film again, I’ve never been able to bring myself to view it a second time.

I’ll forever hold images from this film in my mind, though, as I continue to live vicariously through them in these days leading up to Easter. They still hold the power—as they should—to prompt the physical, emotional, and spiritual reactions I experienced years ago when I sat in a theater with a cloud of witnesses who filed out in silence. We’d all suffered through a cinematic reenactment of Christ’s suffering, painfully acknowledging that as brutal as Gibson’s portrayal was, it wasn’t real. It could only suggest the magnitude of Christ’s physical and spiritual agony.

Yet even as we vicariously suffered, we knew the glorious end of the story. We left the theater in darkness on that Good Friday, as we embraced Jesus’ assurance in John 16:33: “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” We got into our vehicles with our hearts already fixed on Easter Sunday and the suffering Savior’s defeat of death.

As I’ve been walking each day at the nature preserve, I’ve watched a stand of cattails in the eastern corner of the pond I pass. In late March, they’d finally split, their brown bodies spilling pale fibers which fell like powder puffs and dotted the trail. One day, as I passed, the wind teased these puffs into the sky and carried them over the trees and toward the sun. And I thought about this death, the remnants of life bright and airborne now.

I thought about these brown, brittle bodies offering their souls to the wind. I marveled at their ascent. And I felt unmerited joy as I remembered the words of 1 Corinthians 15:55: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”

May you be blessed this Easter and always with Christ’s unmerited grace.

Scattering Your Ashes
   --for our father

In late March, 
the cattails stand at the water’s edge, 
engorged once but now split, 
their stalks bent and prone across the earth;

their entrails spilt in ivory puffs
and strewn across my path

where the wind will feather them 
into filaments so fine they will rise 
like vapor over the fields.

Into this tabernacle of death you went 
as the marrow of your life ran out,
your bones quickening to fiber
and sluffing from your death bed
with each shallow breath

so that when the veil was torn,
the moment was soft
but no less final.

But now, your ash fibers rise,
catching the current that will bear them beyond

while on the riverbank below, your children look up 
into the warp and weft of your great ascent.