Learn the Ways of Nature

In September 1985, this newly minted teenager received a gift from her absent father, The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds, Eastern Region. I don’t remember what that 13-year-old girl thought of her gift, but now more than 30 years later, I crack it open. The backyard paradise I created to find my mother is full of life. The sun, slowing rising above my house, licks the stone wall to the west. Zeph laps around the yard, inspecting every inch.

I take my seat. The best seat in the house. Right down front, center stage. The curtains rise. Tap. Tap. Tap. A chorus of crickets, cicadas and katydids echoes against the back wall high up in the balcony.

Water droplets cling to wispy blades of Bermuda and stocky Saint Augustine. The orchestra builds with the sharp squeal of squirrels teasing Zephy. Clapping cymbals. He barks and leaps and thinks he can climb. Snare drums swoosh in with a rush of leaves. Boom. Bending branches. The woodwinds fill in with the deep whoo of a dove. A soloist stands high atop the wire ready for her grand entrance. She’s tiny and does not own a shiny, sequined gown like the rest of the orchestra, but her voice silences the hall.

Zeph returns, reporting “all is well.” He slinks under my knees. “A fly.” Leaping high into the air, he catches the rude concert guest and spits him out. “Who let him in?”
I try to pick my plump red raspberries before my birds and squirrels devour them. The pomegranates begin their 7 month transformation from tiny, red buds to giant, juicy bulbs (I’ll talk of that transformation in another post). My waterfall cascades down rocks, bouncing off lily pads. Seven bright orange fish dart in and around rocks and reeds, when a large bird lands on the sandstone boulder at the center of the island.

I pull in a deep breath. Eyes pop open. I freeze. The excitement holds the oxygen in my lungs. I gather my senses enough to take a picture before he sees me or Zephy sees him.
My gift, the bird book, sits on the table beside me. Just the other day another bird, very similar to this one, came to visit us, Zephy and me. A beautiful Green Heron stuck around for several hours, floating up into my Crape Myrtles and back down to the pond. His likeness is found on picture number 18 in The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds, Eastern Region.

Our newest visitor occupies picture number 19, a Yellow-crowned Night Heron. He is much taller than his brother with a bright white spot on his cheek, sharply contrasting against his dark grey feathers. But his most striking feature is the long plumb streaking off the top of his head, up and around to touch the center of his back.

All at once, Zephy leaps to attention, the heron flies up to the powerline and I close the book. The cover curls in my left palm, revealing the front page and inscription. What I am holding is a gift from my father, my absent father, my dead father.

The emotions swamp in. I barely remember this man, but actual sobbing tears take over. My parents divorced years before he gave that 13-year-old girl this book. He left us, returning once year or so with gifts and fun outings, like put-put golf and Indiana Beach. That presumption of bought affection still angers me. His absence still hurts me. But the inscription tells a different story, a memory I wish I had, of a father who adores his daughter. A man who sees the value and complicated truth of life. I will leave you with his words, which apply to many, if not all, of the flying lessons.

September 1985
Dear Angela,
Learn the ways of nature. O’er the folly of man, go lightly. Blessing, ever so slightly, the lives of those you touch.
Happy birthday, teenage daughter.
All my love, Dad.

The Flying Lessons

Find choice souls to hold it. Dogs work.
Be present in your skin.
Feel the triumph no matter how small.
Feel the pain no matter how big.
Trust yourself.
Really live, now.
Breathe as deeply as you can, today.

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