Nature Note #193: Being Present

Imagine standing in a white pine forest while warm rays from the sun flow over your arms, neck, and face. The trees sway gently in the wind as you close your eyes, your outer layers wrapped in a pleasant heat. The air is thick with moisture as plants breathe silently around you. In the higher branches, a sound grows loudly, radiating over the entire canopy, as if ringing out of the sun itself. Another voice cries out and then another and another, until a roaring chorus blooms over the treetops. And just as quickly as it grew, like a wave retreating from shore, it pales and fades back into the branches.

White pines in Lincoln, MA

The summer months allow us to experience long sunny days, that power rushing thunderstorms, cooling our neighbourhoods for a brief respite from the heat and humidity. Outdoor recreation spikes with people from all walks of life wanting to escape their homes for a date with the sun. All the while, they are serenaded by secretive musicians in the trees as they weave their high-pitched whines and chatters through the air.

These musicians are cicadas; distant clear-winged relatives of aphids, spittlebugs, and other "true bugs". Like muskrats, there are certain animals I have a deep affinity and appreciation for. They complement a deeper part of myself and fuel a desire to still my actions and thoughts and to simply be present. By being present in the moment, you sense more; observer and observed share a mutual experience that can never be duplicated again. 

When I started writing on Blogger, I had two separate blogs: the "nature exploration" blog called OUT!! and this blog when it was titled under a different name (On the Wing). The latter initially focused more on my birding exploits in and around the Metrowest area of Massachusetts, as well as on the rather ambitious Babe Ruth of Ornithology project I started in late 2012. Even after I had started, I immediately assumed that I simply couldn't come up with ideas fast enough to fill two weekly blogs. I had graduated from college about two months earlier, left a job in Connecticut that just wasn't for me and headed home to work at camp once more. Despite my pleasure at having something to write about, I still felt lost. Fresh out of college and I immediately felt like a fish out of water. 

It wasn't until I had a chance to visit Great Meadows NWR in Concord, MA that I had a chance to commune with a fellow earthling. Nestled betwixt the cattail stalks on the shore of the main pool sat a small, fuzzy creature with small dark eyes, prominent whiskers, and a long, rat-like tail. It was a muskrat (Ondatra zibethicus). I watched as it quietly chewed on a small leaf, nary caring whether I was a threat or not. Perhaps it was used to people and had gotten tired of leaping into the water every time these tall, lumbering creatures came wandering past. It was while I was watching this calm little creature that I felt it. The moment was here.

It was slow and gentle. Time slowed as I watched the muskrat finish its meal and start to wash up. It rubbed its paws over its face and neck before rubbing its belly and finally down its nose and whiskers. I watched and was present. A small eternity seemed to pass until my fellow earthly inhabitant, satisfied with its meal, promptly plonked into the water and swam off.

"Hello brother muskrat. How are you today?"

I think about this moment every once in a while, usually when I'm alone walking a trail or birding on a new refuge and I've tried to stay vigilant for when it might happen next. Moments like these can be fleeting. Whether it be a dramatic struggle between sworn enemies or the orchestral might of wild voices, being present allows one the opportunity to experience these events firsthand and on your own terms. 

Mindfulness allows us to keep a door open to the chance that we might be privy to a scene in Nature's ongoing theatre. As the new year grows and another summer blooms, I will be sure practice this whenever possible. 

Who knows, when brother muskrat will appear once again? Perhaps to share a warm day under a chorus of serenading cicadas in the waning days of July.