I’m always asked, “why do you get up so early?”

It started when Jim was sick.  Like clockwork I knew he would wake at 7:00 and my day would begin.  As I entered the bedroom Jim would be sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.  Sometimes there were tears.  I wondered if in his dreams he was running trails with our dog or pounding his bike up Blackstrap mountain.  Waking brought him back to this horrid reality.  I would gently help him to the bathroom, hanging close while he did his morning routine then helped him walk back to the bedroom.   As he sat on the bed I would hold up a shirt, “this one?”.  The sweater, yes?  No?  The pants.  Together we’d dress him in his chosen outfit, with me assisting him in putting that bent and stiff right arm into the arm holes, lifting and aiming his right leg into the pants, slipping on his socks and tying his shoes.  Now dressed we would head towards the stairs.  I would position myself in front, a stair or two lower, acting as a spotter in  hopes I could catch him should he slip, or miscalculate the next step or lose his tight one-handed grip on the railing, or any number of things that could go horribly wrong with his severely compromised body.  This was just the beginning of the long day ahead of taking care of this man who once was an amazing athlete.

So during those days I would slide out of bed early.  If I got up at 3:00 I had 4 blessed hours to myself.  I’d tiptoe down to the kitchen and make a pot of coffee.  With a steaming cup in hand I’d walk into the living room and open the laptop to check emails and facebook, then I would begin writing my blog.  Jim had a very large and amazing community of friends and business associates who were following these blogs in order to stay in touch with how Jim was doing.  I’d sit there, watching the tequila cocktail of colors fill the horizon as the sun rose over Casco Bay.   The first Crow, of the family of 4 that I fed, would land in the White Pine tree, directly in my vision to inform me it was time for their breakfast.   At 7:00 I could hear the bed creak overhead and knew my quiet time was over.

So, why do I continue to get up so early?  

Because I love the early morning hours.  They ask nothing of me.  There’s a hush that needs to be kept.  A calm that cannot be disrupted.  There’s the ritual of making coffee and a peace that the darkness brings.  In these wee hours just before dawn there is the promise of the coming light.  It seeps into the blackness; the stars blink out and the mountain’s silhouette begins to show.  The trees become woodcut etchings against the changing light in the sky that turns black to pink and then to a hint of blue.  As the sun climbs higher the summit of “my” mountain reflects the light, shimmering in a rosy glow, sometimes fuchsia, changing to gold.  The light travels down the slope of the mountain and spreads into the valley .  Now the morning feels old; it’s time to start the chores of the day.

But early morning, when the night begins to pull away, there are no demands, only silence before beginning another day.

And this is why I get up so early.

The Chickadees

 Sometimes if we share something sacred it loses its power.   Other times it is a salve for someone else and thus an important experience to share.  Today I share with you a sacred experience that happened the first of January of 2023.

I walk with Rosie every day.  When the lake is frozen I love to walk out onto the ice where there is a wonderful view of the mountains that create this valley.  Rosie loves to hug the shoreline and explore a muskrat lodge. It appears she can hear them inside it.  When the ice shifts there is an amazing song that vibrates across the lake … at times it booms.  I’ve witnessed Rosie several times stopping to stare down at the ice and then she jumps at it, much like a fox diving head first into the snow after a mouse. Without the deep snow Rosie simply bangs the ice with her front paws, creating more sound and more intrigue for her with more front paw banging.  It never ceases to have me laughing out loud when she does this.

On this one day there was not much snow pack so I was able to hike across the frozen lake and onto the trails without cumbersome snow shoes.  From across the lake I headed into our trails that meander through varied terrain of our acreage.  As I chose a trail that would eventually head back to the house a Chickadee flew by me very close and landed in a branch right at eye level.  I love Chickadees.  The Black Capped Chickadee is here in Maine year round and recognized as Maine's State bird.  Sweet, small, with a black cap and gray body they have many different voices with one that sounds like their name, “dee-dee-dee”.  During mating season they give a melodic “fee-bee, fee-bee”, always a blessed sound of spring.

This one little bird caught my attention and with it sitting so close to me I stopped to talk with it.  At this point the tree filled with many little birds, a flock of Chickadees.  They flitted and swirled all over the branches.  I stood smiling at all of them when a few began to fly around me.  I felt no aggression, only amazement as they flew so close I could hear their small wings and feel the air that they created in this flight.  This lasted for several minutes until Rosie realized I wasn’t behind her and came charging back down the trail, which sent the birds scattering. 

As I headed home I chose one more trail that wouldn’t be a direct line to the house but allowed us to extend this walk a bit longer.  Once again a chickadee caught my attention and landed in a branch that overhung the trail beside me.  I stopped and watched in amazement as the tree filled with this flock.  

“Are you all following me?” I whispered? 

And a few birds flew to me and back to the branch.  With Rosie running back to me she scattered the birds once more.  They didn't revisit me again for the rest of the walk. 

The next day Rosie and I needed to do a longer walk.  Sometimes this will  mean heading down the skimobile trail in the opposite direction of our trails.  A half mile from the house I reached the peak of the first rise when the Chickadees returned to me!  I stood in awe as they filled a tree beside me for a third time. I closed my eyes and whispered my gratitude to them as I felt little wings on my face as they swirled around me.  

I just stood there astounded at these little beings that were insistent on getting my attention once more and then honoring me with their trust as they flew so close to me.

Chickadees are the one bird easy to “tame” with a bit of food.  With a little coaxing and patience you can get them to land on your hand and take the food from you.  But on these two days I carried only dog treats, no seeds for these feathered friends. I was offering them nothing to feast on.  Nor did I feel any aggression from them.  This was not mating season or nesting season for these birds and even if it was they would not be protecting a nest as an entire flock like this!

For me this was a spiritual sign, a message.  Over the course of my years I have been graced with many signs from the animal kingdom.  These messages are gifts to me and I have learned to accept the message that is being offered; to learn and grow from it.

Here is the Chickadees message:

One of the primary gifts of the Chickadee Spirit Animal is simple joy and a sense of serenity. If life has been far more complicated than it need to be, Chickadee's presence is like a breath of fresh air. Take it in! Put down those worries for a little while and listen to the Chickadee's lilting song; the bird also portends better things are on the horizon for you, particularly good news.

Call on your inner Chickadee Power when you want to stick to the absolute, fundamental truth in any matter. The lines in the sand are clear, and you need to walk them with dignity and honor.

This was absolutely the message I needed to absorb, to trust and to embrace. At that time I was struggling with a lot of family drama and being shown who one family member was. I had to believe her and this was difficult for me to accept. My heart, head and spirit was hurting as I had to navigate this new information and the nefarious deeds that had been done against me and my other siblings.

The Chickadee's message was so powerful at that time, so intuitively correct for me that I reached for it several times over the course of months.

Today I still struggle with letting go, but as the Chickadee promised better things have come and I live with gratitude every day.

 

Sex on the Trails

 We live a short walk from a discontinued road that is now an ATV trail in the summer and a skimobile trail in the winter.  When the sleds have traveled it the trail is hard packed and wonderful to walk on.  Near the house the trail is maintained by our local ATV/Snowmobile club.  A mile and a half away it connects with the ITS (Interconnected Trail System) which runs throughout the entire state of Maine.  This means Rosie and I can certainly get a lot of miles in if we feel up for it!

At least once a week I like to go out for a longer walk, 5-7 miles, on these trails and just see what’s doing in the neighborhood.  A light snow shows signs of the Fisher that travels off the mountain and comes across the trail.  This might be the same g/gal who travels through the back of our property.  Weasel tracks dart in and out of small holes and a small red fox loves to walk this trail too. 

Two weeks ago Rosie and I were about one mile from the house when I began to see urine markings along the small snowbank the snowmobiles and the groomer created.  This first marking was obviously a male that had lifted his leg and spread his yellow urine for a couple steps.  The squiggly line looked like the animal was trying to write his name in the snow!  Coyote tracks all over the trail helped me identify the culprit.  There were also the tell tail scratch marks of his hind legs “ground scratching” to spread the scent as well as demonstrate dominance.  Only a few steps later there was urine with blood in it.  More male marking and then more female marking with her blood.  She’s in heat!  It’s coyote mating season!

Coyotes, similar to wolves, mate for life and raise the pups together.  Unlike wolves they do not form a pack but form a “family”.  Coyotes usually travel and hunt alone although we have seen the mated alpha couple hunting together in our field.  The males will leave the family within six to nine months and strike off for their own territory.  The females may stay with their parents for a longer period of time eventually dispersing to find mates before the next breeding season. Thus the difference between the "family" and the "pack".

Rosie had a lot of interest in all this urine and she demonstrated her own “ground scratching” even without urinating.  Not sure what she was trying to prove but it fascinated me all the same.

So our neighborhood coyote pair are mating!   Their pups will be born at the end of March or first of April.  WIthin a month the pups will be weaned and then the parents will work together to feed them regurgitated food until they are big enough to learn to hunt for themselves.  It might be fun if we get to see the little ones in the field down front learning to hunt mice. 

Yesterday I headed out again towards where I had witnessed the urine marks. I wanted to see if there were any more signs of coyotes.  There were!  At the same place where there had been urine markings there was now an amazing amount of coyote tracks in the middle of the trail with the trail dug up in two different places.  This was obviously signs of some kind of tussle.  There was no blood, so if this was a fight for dominance it wasn’t real serious.  Nor were there any signs of a kill since there was no hair, feathers or blood.   Were these signs of the male mating with the female?  I have no idea and can only piece together the clues and make guesses.  This had happened recently as these tracks were created after the dusting of snow we had gotten in the early morning. I am aware that the coyote is going to be more aggressive during mating season and although I wasn’t really worried or feeling any fear I did find myself  taking note of any large branches that had fallen along the trail as a possible defense tool just in case! 

I do love our trails out here.  It is a wild land with acres and acres of wooded countryside and miles before any other houses exist along these trails.  There is far too much logging of it, in my humble opinion, as landowners here seem to see the trees as a commodity vs living beings. We vow to the trees on our acreage that they are safe and we will continue to let them grow; only cutting what we need to heat our home in the winter and preferring to take the standing dead or downed trees before cutting the live ones. 

These trails hold stories for me to witness who I walk this land with.  Rarely do I see other human tracks and this is fine with me.  I relish being out here alone with my dog and all the other beings who share, what feels like, sacred space with us.

2023

 4:00 am and 18 degrees Fahrenheit.  It's cold.

The snow sounds like the squeaking of styrofoam as I walk out onto the deck.  

There has been a light dusting of snow.  Two inches, not nearly enough for folks in these mountains who love their winter sports, but enough to reflect the waning full moon and its blue-white light creating a world with shadows from trees that look like wood etchings.  The treetops on the mountain shimmer under the moon, reflecting the topping of frozen confection of snow and ice. 

The stars actually twinkle.  I stare at one trying to decide if it's moving, not wanting to mistake the flashing and sparkle for a plane.  It is such a bright star that it's truly blinking and winking in this cold morning air.

I step out here every morning to send my prayers on the breeze to be carried across this valley and over the mountains. Calling in the Spirits to hear my prayers for a better world, peace to those who struggle in this life.  Asking that the anger and dark hearts of too many be filled with more love.  Asking for guidance for me in holding onto trust that all will be OK.  Trusting that the wish to "send help!" is heard.  

"What you practice becomes stronger."  I choose to practice gratitude.  I choose to practice kindness.  I choose to practice honesty.  I choose to practice faith and trust in this wide Universe and to stand in silence, on this deeply cold morning in the light of this brilliant moon.  I choose to practice gratitude.

Mornings in the mountains

 On these cold, clear mornings I rise early in the dark; the "bewitching hour" as some think of it.  I get the coffee going and then walk out onto the frost covered deck.  The quarter moon has set so the stars in our world blaze brilliantly in a sky free from all light pollution.   I stand still to let my eyes adjust and then look for the Hunter with his bejeweled belt, standing century in the east.  

Over the top of the mountain I find Pleiades, the Seven Sisters, one of my favorite constellations.  These sisters turn my thoughts to my own sisters.  I mourn the loss of one of them, not that she is gone from this world but she has chosen to be gone from my life.  I send prayers asking for help with the navigation to forgiveness for myself and my own peace as well as peace for what remains of my family.

I search for the Big Dipper, tilted and spilling over these days.  I follow the arch of its handle to the bright star, Arcturus ... "Arch to Arcturus" as I was taught.  Arcturus now hovers, barely visible, on top of the mountains that frame this valley.

I breathe in and stare in wonder at the Universe that is on display for me on these mornings.  I raise my arms in greeting to my ancestors, and to all the loved ones gone from this world and so greatly missed.  In this season of "thanks giving" I send my thanks up into the heavens, gratitude for all that I have, all the love that I am embraced by, all the blessings bestowed on me over all these years.

My dog, Rosie, now jams herself between my legs reminding me that it's cold as I feel her shivering.  I bend low to hold her tight with my thighs and to wrap my arms around her.  She wiggles with delight but continues to shiver.  I ask her, "want to go inside?" and she is at the door before I have time to stand up.  Back inside, with a hot cup of coffee, I return to a warm bed.

Mornings in the mountains.

(Photo credit, David B. Lovejoy @ Lobster Lake)

Rain

 It's raining.  For several days it has rained on and off. This is the rain I remember of
my youth; clouds gray and hanging low with rain falling all day.  To receive this gift of water just before the ground freezes and the snow flies means our wells will be filled for the coming winter.  Our streams on the property are swelled and gushing with small waterfalls along the path, the song sounding, at times, like children's laughter as the water tumbles over rocks and dead trees.  It's glorious.

Recently we spent a few weeks in California.  The wedding of the oldest boy called us out there.  The event was filled with family, laughter and love and these two amazing humans created a ceremony that was beautiful and loving.  It was up in the mountains outside of LA at a year round resort called Big Bear lake.  The lake, like most of the lakes in CA, was a reservoir created by a large damn.  This lake is surrounded by vacation homes with docks and boats no longer at the waters edge.  You must walk by the dock, now sitting in mud with vegetation growing up all around it, and continue for several more yards before reaching what is now the water line.

This was a theme throughout all of California where beautiful reservoirs had receded 100's of yards away from their original water line.  What was once a big "lake" now looked more like a sorry bathtub, brown and murky waters, complete with a ring around the edge.

The west is drying up.  We felt the intense heat of the days, witnessed the brown, dead leaves on the prickly plants. Hiked through the dust of a parched land.  The orchards and farms are drying up.  They put water into this dead soil to nourish plants vs people.  And the people put water into their lawns.

Do they understand how low the water line of their reservoir is?

Are they aware that their water is running out?

That fires are consuming the forests and smoke is choking the air?

This world is changing fast.  Drastically fast.  

And we are not changing our use of water along with it.

In Maine, it’s raining.  We have water.  But those of us living in the north must face the fact that at some point we will no longer have peaches, oranges and plums all year. The produce aisle is going to be shrinking with its offerings. We will need to eat according to our seasons. We will need to grow our own food. For the severe drought in the West affects all of us

The sun is bursting through the clouds spreading a promise of drying up the rain soaked land. I will take a walk on our trails where the fallen leaves of Oaks and Beech trees have thickly covered the path with their brown coloring that shines in the morning light turning the path into a trail laid with copper. The Birches and Poplar trees throw down their bright yellow, round leaves and look like gold coins strewn on top of the copper. We are rich with the colors of the season.

We are rich with the rains that fill our wells, bloat our streams and raise the level of our lakes.

I will take a walk and stroll along one of our stream trails and be serenaded by its' bubbling song so like the joyous laughter of children.

Be well everyone,

Mary

We saw a white deer the other night.  Native Americans referred to these extremely rare animals that are all white as “Ghost Deers”.  Our deer has a brown head, but its entire body is ghostly white.  

Such a sacred sighting as it ran across the shore on one side of our lake while we sat in our boat noting it.  At first we thought it was a white dog, but none of our neighbors have such an animal.  The realization that it was a deer brought us to our feet.  It disappeared into the trees only to reappear swimming strongly across the lake.  Keeping a very respectful distance from it with our boat we got to see it leap out of the water and disappear into the woods of the distant shore.

So incredibly white.  

Striking in this unusual color

Amazing.

I immediately began to offer a prayer to the setting sun as this sacred sighting certainly seemed to ask this of me.  For the first time in my life I did not pray for any family member or for myself but, rather, I prayed for our country.  I prayed for peace and unity among the people of the current un-United States.  I prayed for sanity to return to the elected officials who seem hell-bent on derailing our democracy.  I prayed for those in need to receive and for the greed in so many blackened hearts to ease so that abundance may rule the land.

I prayed for love to rule, not the hate that drives someone to take up a gun and shoot indiscriminately into crowds of people.  

Or classrooms filled with the most innocent of us, our children.

I prayed for Love to become our religion.  Not a certain God.  Not a set of rules that dictate right and wrong of others who don’t follow, or believe, in these same rules. Or the same God. 

“God is love”, but not if you insist that it is YOUR God who must be the One.

Gods rule my heart, filling me with joy and gratitude. These Gods offer me gifts of a white deer, a Bald Eagle, the cries of the Loons, the slashing of the dark woods and fields with the bright lights of Fireflies, a dome over my head, evidence of the Universe, on crystal clear nights.

I prayed for our country.

I prayed for all of this. 

Which is also offering prayers for myself, my family, my friends.

For all of us.

I also pray for another sighting of this miraculous, rare individual who we now know shares these fields, woods and lake with us.  The chances for an Albino deer being born are 1 in 30,000.  I don’t know what the statistics of seeing one is.  I leave it to be extremely rare!  

A once in a lifetime sighting.  

A gift ... from whatever God you may believe in.