Every morning starts the same way. I pour my orange juice and my coffee then I sit at the table where my computer resides and my books,papers, pens, etc. sprawl. This is where I write. This is where I work. Ok, insert the words “try to” before write and work. On the past few snow days, as all the magical found time evaporated without an appreciable diminishment in my work pile, it finally occurred to me (duh!) that perhaps my work setting is less than desirable. Or too desirable.
I mean really, is it any wonder I don’t get anything done? I’m perpetually distracted by the world outside my window. Before the sun rises, there’s a chance I might get some morning writing done, but the lightening day offers its own allure as shadows gradually soften and dawn’s glow spreads. Then the first birds arrive and I’m lost. The parade continues from early morning until late afternoon. The chickadees, those cheerful, bold birds, gather in the nest of wisteria vines and pop in and out to access the feeders. I’m endlessly amused by the nuthatches, both red-breasted and white. I’m a rapt spectator as they indulge in their upside-down antics, walking up and down tree trunks or lingering upside down on the feeders. When they perch, they hunker down and their necks meld with their slight bodies, creating their unique endearing nuthatch-y profile. I’ve become inordinately fond of the female cardinal with her understated beauty and watch closely for her arrival, usually heralded by the showy scarlet flash of her mate. How many colors are in her soft plumage, so often overlooked?
On the ground the juncos double-foot hop comically along the snow covered garden paths, joined by a few tufted titmice and a golden brown sparrow. Hairy, downy, and red-bellied woodpeckers swoop in and gorge on the suet cakes. Occasionally, a pileated woodpecker makes a dramatic cameo appearance, sending me running for my camera. In winter the finches have faded to a drab olive-gray but every so often the light is just right and their yellow breast shines in the winter landscape, pulsing with a promise of sunlit summer days. Flashing in on cerulean wings, posturing and squawking, the blue jays arrive in a burst of movement. They jostle for position, sending shimmering showers of snow tumbling from the branches to the ground below. Just yesterday the mourning doves returned, adding their soft calls to the chirps and squawks and their sober presence to the activity below the feeders. There’s simply never a dull moment.
I love watching the birds but clearly I need to consider doing something differently. I seldom write more than a few sentences before my attention is distracted by some flash of movement at the feeders. Perhaps I need to work in a different spot and reward myself with occasional viewing? I considered this at length as I watched the show yesterday and finally came to my decision. There may be a loss of productivity in my current setting, but the gains decidedly offset it. There’s no way I can deny myself this natural extravaganza. In the spirit of “in for a penny, in for a pound”, I headed out to the feed store yesterday afternoon and made a few purchases. Today, I’ll take those bags out to the birch tree, pull out a new feeder or two, fill them with some tempting new varieties of seed and suspend them alongside the others.
I can’t wait to see the show tomorrow!
Last week I drove up to Orono, Maine to watch my daughter perform in The Vagina Monologues. Eve Ensler, the playwright, allows the show to be produced, royalty-free, on or around Feb. 14th to raise funds for groups working to end violence against women. This was my first time to see the show and I found it unexpectedly moving. Funny. Harrowing. I couldn’t relate to all that was said and some of the language was a bit over-the-top for me, but I listened as young women shared other women’s stories. Stories of shame and confusion. Stories of empowerment. Stories of abuse. Stories of personal discovery. Stories of trauma and rape and mutilation. So many stories.
Once again I’m sharing some poems I’ve written during my sporadic participation in Laura Shovan’s February 
On a more pleasant note, the snow has just started here. A few soft flakes drift over the garden while a flock of finches feeds on the fallen seed beneath the feeder. A red-bellied woodpecker pecks the suet, cocks its head and flies off. Black-capped chickadees hop and weave through the tangled web of wisteria vines. Inside, the fire is hissing and popping and the cat is curled and sleeping on the hearth. Every so often the radiators emit a soft reassuring tick and my mug is filled with warm, fragrant coffee.
I’ve marched before. Twice. Once in the Forsyth County Civil Rights March in Georgia in 1987 and once at the Pro Choice March in DC in 1992. This past Saturday, 25 years later, I was back on the streets, marching in the Women’s March in Portland, Maine.
Since the election, however, I’ve been pondering whether I need to do more and what that might look like. What is my responsibility when I see our country divided by hatred and led by someone whose behavior and agenda is abhorrent to me–someone whose behavior, in fact, would warrant intervention in an elementary school? Isn’t silence a form of passive acceptance? What can I do to support the causes I believe in? Voting simply doesn’t seem like enough.
Arriving in Portland, it was easy to follow the stream of sign-bearing pedestrians to the march. People were smiling, laughing, singing. Music flowed from the open windows of neighborhood residents and occasional drum beating filled the air. Motorists beeped car horns and cheered in support as they passed the throngs.
We continued blowing and soon had accumulated several bubbles on the table and watched a few burst in air into frozen tendrils of solution. Our calls of “Look at this one!” “Here’s another!” and “Oooh! That’s a good one!” echoed through the night.
Nix the comfort zone 