Looking for loveliness

“One can always find something lovely to look at or listen to.” – from Anne of Windy Poplars by Lucy Maud Montgomery.

I ran across this line while re-reading some of the Anne of Green Gables novels during the last days of winter and, as I began writing about it, found “something lovely to look at” outside my window. A snowstorm had sheathed the trees in white, turning the barren scene into a wonderland, especially when the sun added a IMG_0972glow. Anne would have been pleased at the sight, though I think she would have gone into greater raptures about it than I have done here.

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These miniature daffodils are among the first blooms of spring in our garden.

Now, with the approach and finally the onset of spring, it has been much easier to find lovely things to see and hear. The first miniature irises and daffodils have bloomed in the garden, and foliage from other plants is poking through the cover of dead leaves. Our bird population is changing, as evidenced by the chatter of blackbirds, punctuated more recently by the call of an Eastern Phoebe, and sightings of a pair of Fox Sparrows, a cloud of buzzards kettling overhead, and two Eastern Meadowlarks in a field outside the woods. Amid this, a Cooper’s Hawk added to our delights by alighting near the pond and mugging for our camera as he surveyed the property for food.

Such lovely somethings and the joy they bring are the sweet reward for those of us who fully experience the darkness and cold of northern winters. But the lesson of Anne of Green Gables is to find them in all seasons, whether gray or green. Anne’s example and that of others encourages me to be constantly on watch for “something lovely,” and especially to seek it out on days when it seems absent.

My husband, who has a lifelong habit of observing the landscape wherever he happens to be, has been a great teacher in this regard. He learned as a child to scan a horizon, a stand of trees, a seashore, or even a span of power lines for “something out of place,” “something that doesn’t fit.” So it is that he frequently sees Bald Eagles and hawks while working outside, looking through a window, or driving, and is the first to catch the movement of Wood Ducks flying through the trees or a Northern Harrier swooping over a field. In fact, lovely somethings seem to find him, almost as if they hone in on his receptivity.

I am pleased to be the beneficiary of his sightings, and, thanks to his coaching, occasionally have my own, as happened recently when I heard, then spied a flock of swans in the field abutting the lane where I walk.

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Had I not been alert to the possibility of “something lovely” that day, I might have missed this pleasant scene. Indeed, it was a morning when the shabbiness of a gray, foreboding sky, muddy fields, and the chill of the air conspired to distract me from thinking about anything of beauty.

But living like Anne – and my husband – demands resisting acquiescence to appearances. It requires a willingness to believe that another layer lies beneath what we see and the resolve to delve deeper to find it or to wait for it to be revealed.

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A visiting Cooper’s Hawk.

When I don’t do this, I miss opportunities, as I did some years ago when I noticed a bearded, elderly priest had joined the ranks of the residents at a home for the aged I sometimes visit. He had a kind of poetic bearing, almost that of a hermit who spent his days in the desert and his nights in a cave. One of the residents told me he was very holy, but it wasn’t until some time after his death that I learned he had been a prolific author and noted figure in certain religious circles. As he lived out his last days in relative obscurity, I had observed him and been intrigued, but apparently not enough to go deeper to discover who he was. Clearly, I overlooked a treasure in my own backyard.

Writer and naturalist Cindy Crosby could easily have done the same when she moved to a seemingly barren Chicago suburb after having lived in settings with more apparent natural beauty. In By Willoway Brook, she tells how, though less than enthused about her new location, she focused on “the landscape at hand,” noting the birds in her backyard and putting up feeders to draw them in. Then she discovered a tallgrass prairie nearby – and in it more birds. Soon, she saw “the possibilities that lie within exterior and interior landscapes” as the prairie became for her a metaphor for prayer as well as the motif for her work and writing.

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One of the Bald Eagles my husband spied recently.

Still, she learned that not everyone saw as she did. When an acquaintance who had listened to her ecstatic praise of the prairie’s grasses and flowers felt compelled to investigate for himself, he walked away bewildered. “Weeds, Cindy,” he told her. “It’s nothing but weeds.” Had Anne of Green Gables heard his dismissive comment, she likely would have shaken her head and said sadly, as she once did to Marilla Cuthbert, “Oh . . . how much you miss.”

But then for Anne, the stretch of road the locals called “the Avenue” was the White Way of Delight, Barry’s pond was the Lake of Shining Waters, and the spring by the log bridge was the Dryad’s Bubble. In the final Anne novel, Rilla of Ingleside, World War I has cast a shadow over everyday life, but Anne and other “kindred spirits” still keep watch for the lovely, even when sorrow descends. For that, they are the richer, finding the light in the darkness and uncovering the marvelous in the seemingly mundane. For my part, I think I will stick with them, rambling through the seasons, looking for loveliness everywhere, and expecting to find it.

 

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Rest for the word-weary

“Thanks for giving me your email address. I will keep it on file for use in case of an urgent need for correspondence with you, as I consider it best if we stay away from the continuous contact so overwhelming in our digital era.”

Those lines from a letter I received via post last month were balm to a spirit wearied by words. The weeks since I wrote my last blog entry have been filled with myriad duties requiring much oral and written communication, some of which has produced seemingly little fruit for the energy expended. So it was that the message cited above was a welcome one, not only because it recognized the exhausting nature of communication in this age, but also because it was a rare voice of restraint in a milieu where “can” means “do.”

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Letting the words speak for themselves: Destiny and Decision, Sermon Nuggets, and More Sermon Nuggets, by Fred Zimmerman.

The writer of my letter is Fred Zimmerman, a retired minister and author who has been around long enough to remember a different sort of life than the one to which we all have become sadly accustomed. He uses electronic communication sparingly, as indicated above, and still takes the time to write and send letters on paper. In publishing his books – a memoir and collections of excerpts from his sermons – he employed a similar strategy, deciding to let the words speak for themselves instead of seeking to advance them through interviews and social media posts.

Although some might consider his style anachronistic in our media age, I love its bold, yet gentle, countercultural stance. And I think it explains why he is able to pierce the clutter of words and images inundating us today with his incisive insights.

From his writings, I know that he values solitude as a time to commune with God. Without it, he writes in his second volume of sermon excerpts, “we cannot hope to live a meaningful life and perform meaningful work.” He goes on to quote William Wordsworth: “The world is too much with us . . . getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.”

In our day, the world that is “too much with us” is one peppered with words, images, and opportunities to interact with each another, all vying for attention day and night on our computers and smart phones. Unlike the characters in Jane Austen’s novels who take time to write and read their letters, carefully discerning and reflecting on the meaning of the words, we have no leisure to process our missives. The instant – and insistent – nature of text-messaging and email urges us to read and respond immediately so that sometimes we miss or misinterpret our correspondent’s meaning. Or we get so many messages that some are lost or forgotten as we deal with what seems most urgent.

This has affected us in ways I suspect we do not even realize. Our thoughts and conversations are scattered, and our preoccupations often trivial. Our minds are noisy and crowded, with scarcely any room for or recognition of a profound thought should one float by, and our speech frequently is a sad reflection of this disorder. It is no wonder that many of us seek solace in nature, where we can quietly gaze on birds and sunsets, P1010498for only there can we escape the barrage of words and digital images that constantly bombard us – provided a cell phone doesn’t beep or buzz.

Quite simply, we are talking too much and taking in too much. Although it’s tempting to simply withdraw from the digital world for a time, as some do as a means of fasting during this season of Lent, I prefer my minister friend’s approach of moderation, making use of technology’s gifts without letting them rule our lives.

Other friends have done similarly. Some only answer emails at certain times, rather than whenever they happen to get a message. Another friend removed the Facebook app from her phone so that she does not check it as frequently. One method I use is to mute my phone so that I’m not prompted to look at it every time it announces a text, email, or call.

Although all these are helpful in setting boundaries for interfacing with the electronic world, they are mere steps to something greater and worth pursuing — what the spiritual classic Divine Intimacy calls exterior and interior silence. These do not mean we never speak or think, but that we avoid idle chatter, prolonged conversations, and talkativeness and keep watch over the imagination, feelings, and thoughts in the interest of preserving a state of receptivity to what is most important. The author of Divine Intimacy, Father Gabriel of St. Mary Magdalen, lived from 1893 to 1953, well before the Internet’s entry into our communal space, but his words – and those of my minister friend – are timeless. They speak to every person’s sense of restlessness and yearning for peace, one that is universal, regardless of the times and circumstances in which we live.

Tempering our good tidings

It’s time for that seasonal staple known as the holiday letter, a tradition that, as a recipient, fills me with a mixture of dread and delight.

Although I enjoy reading what people have been up to in the last year and looking at photos of their charming families, I lament the trend toward filling these missives with accomplishments and acquisitions – especially considering that Christmas is about the birth of a babe to poor folk in a humble setting.

With the onset of social media and the expansion of Christmas cards into one-size-fits-all letters, it seems we’ve reached a new level in what used to be decried as bragging. In glorious, illustrated accounts of our good fortune, some of us seize on Christmas as an opportunity to detail trip itineraries, house plans, and job P1040752promotions, all with seemingly little awareness of those on our mailing lists who may be struggling with illness, death, economic hardship, and other woes.

I know that we are to rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep, but when you’re busy rejoicing in print over your own fortuitous circumstances, can you really hear someone weeping? And, although those who weep are often gracious enough to be glad for the blessings in another’s life, do we need to push them to the limits by going overboard with our good news?

I have also noticed that in letters from some people who have real struggles, their concerns are either barely acknowledged or strangely absent. For example, I got a letter one year in which a short notice of a family member’s passing was sandwiched between triumphant paragraphs about high-achieving children, pets, and a second home. In another instance, I once asked a friend why she wasn’t sharing something of her difficulties with her aging parents in her annual letter and she said she didn’t think people wanted to read that sort of news over the holidays.

But what if leaving such things out gives the impression that our lives are perfect, creating distance between us and those we call friends? Do we really want people to think we lead lives in which the most agonizing decision of the year was whether to buy Viking or Sub-Zero appliances for the new gourmet kitchen, or the most taxing challenge was coordinating flights to multiple destinations so as to maximize air miles? It is good, after all, to know not just the happy occurrences, but the sorrowful ones, too. By this, I don’t mean that we should report every detail of a surgery or send out screeds of anguish, but that we give people an honest, balanced picture of our lives.

As an antidote to some of the excess in holiday letters, I’ve tried different tacks over the years, such as writing short notes in my cards or, if a letter is appropriate, personalizing it and toning down good news, acknowledging losses, and writing about nature. I’ve noted and appreciated those friends who have chosen similar alternatives like sending poems they have written or, as one has done this year, excerpts from a sermon he first preached in December, 1986. For last year’s letter, I simply shared a reflection I had written for the funeral service of my Aunt Anna, who had died just before the holidays. I thought her quiet life had something to teach all of us, especially at this time of year.

My aunt, a woman who lived simply and learned early on that money and things did not buy happiness, seems to be speaking again as we begin another holiday season. Her greatest pleasures, especially in her later years, came from watching deer and birds through the windows of her apartment and eventually, the care facility where she died. As I wrote her funeral reflection, I was inspired by a W.H. Davies poem that seemed to capture her. It begins, “What is this life, if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.”

If my Aunt Anna had written a holiday letter, there wouldn’t have been much in it, for she didn’t have a lot to say in social situations. Her life was more about being than having and doing. Theologian Yves Congar writes of letting God brush away “the various ‘havings’ that serve us as alibis and lead us to evade the decisive issues of ‘being.’” Deep within, we all know we avoid what is real by our “havings.” It would be nice if, when we send our holiday greetings this year, we could dispense with our lists of “havings” and convey something of our “being.”

Transfiguration

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I’m grateful to be able to share this beautiful November reflection as a guest post by Carolyn, a fellow writer whose thoughts formed the July 11, 2014 post, Giving children room to wonder. The photo of the ice-encased crabapples was taken by her oldest son, Francis, whose pictures also were part of the earlier post. 

As I sat on the tractor, in the chill of the frosty November morning, it seemed as if neither the world nor I would ever warm up. But, watching from the edge of the field, I saw a slow transformation begin to unfold. The sun had been making a late appearance on these fall mornings. Now, just in time for my mid-morning break, it was finally rising over the tops of the leafless trees. Meter by meter, the dark, cold field was illuminated, reminding me of a shade being opened in a dim room. The Goldenrod, Joe-Pye, and Ironweed looked a little dull and “seedy,” but as the sunlight kissed them they caught fire. IP1080696 watched in awe and realized that each flower in the field, each stem of grass, was encased in its own very fine layer of icy frost. What had seemed a dead, wet, dull brown field was awakened into a warm palate of late fall color. Cinnamon, umber, ochre, and mahogany shades materialized as I realized that I, too, was beginning to warm up. My eyes hungrily attempted to take everything in before the angle of the sun changed and the magic dissolved. And then, there seemed to be a pause in the stillness as if an artist were taking his breath before painting the final and most difficult part of a scene. The sun reached a copse of crabapple trees. I never saw a diamond that dazzled me as much as each single ice-encased red or yellow crabapple. The light entered the ice at the top of an apple and kindled a halo of liquid fire around each one.

As if attracted to a beacon, a flock of birds alighted in the first tree. The bright red feathers on their wings and yellow-dipped tails seemed to want to find understanding in the clusters of red and yellow berries. But, at the same time, the bold, black mask and flashy crest of the Cedar Waxwings asserted their singularity.

Sitting back in my seat, overwhelmed by emotion, I realized that a corner of my heart had a profound sadness. I wanted to be able to capture the moment in a painting or picture, but would never be able to recreate in any way even a portion of the beauty I had just encountered.

When I sat on the edge of that field, I was 20 years old. My lifelong faith was just beginning to be caught by that transforming fire that turned it into something beautiful and alive. When I experienced the beauty of that field, I sat still and knew that God’s loving hand was touching my face. And I was thankful.

Now almost 20 years later, I look back on the encounter and see many more layers. Each year since then has been an unfolding of some new aspect of the beauty of God’s love. Little by little, the shade has been opened in my darkened room so that I can now begin to see the transformation of the events of my life. Things that would have looked at best, mundane, and at worst, like overwhelming suffering, I can now see as having their own profound beauty.

The sadness I felt on the seat of that tractor is still tangible. I am constantly faced with the depth of my inability to share the beauty of God’s love. But I also live a great hope. I know if I offer him this cold, dull, dark field, he can transform it into something that will reflect the splendor of his love — something even more dazzling than an ice-encased crabapple.

Otherwise engaged


“I’m so sorry, but I am engaged tonight.”

With that simple expression of regret, Mary Lindsay, the lead character in Elizabeth Goudge’s novel, The Scent of Water, gracefully – and successfully – declines a dinner invitation from Mrs. Hepplewhite, the neighborhood social maven.

Goudge’s story, which takes place in England in an earlier, more genteel time, leaves me wishing that we in our day had such a lovely and acceptable way of responding to similar overtures. But in our “so busy” culture, it seems we are expected to either recite a litany of activity to justify our regrets or, better still, find a way to wedge one more gathering into an already full schedule.

On the night of Mrs. Hepplewhite’s invitation, Mary Lindsay had planned to pore over the old diaries she had found in the house inherited from Cousin Mary. To her credit, she kept to her plan, held her hostess at bay, and went home to have aP1040537n early supper, light a fire “for the sake of company and loveliness,” and sit beside it with the diaries piled nearby.

Had Mary lived in our time and place, I wonder if she wouldn’t have thought to herself, “Darn, I was going to page through Cousin Mary’s diaries tonight, but, oh well, I guess I can do that another time – or maybe look at a few when I get home.” Thankfully, though, in Goudge’s imagination, Mary stands her ground and lives on to inspire me – and other kindred spirits.

Like most people of our day, I have become deft at tweaking schedules and rearranging the time to meet a myriad of obligations – even if I arrive at them late or breathless. But as part of my quest to incorporate more quiet – and sanity – into my life, I’ve been trying to shed the practice of “wedging” in favor of weaving some breathing room into each day, whether it’s to stay home and garden or catch up with the laundry and mail. This means saying “no” to more invitations and “yes” to a few, remembering, as one friend has pointed out, that other people can’t see our calendars.

I’ve also learned, though, that the world in which we live is largely made up of Mrs. Hepplewhites who cannot imagine why someone would prefer staying home to any organized activity or social gathering. As a result, few of us have the wherewithal to say we are “engaged” when we have planned – and perhaps need – an evening at home with a good book.

Yet that is precisely what Goudge’s Mary Lindsay did. Would Mrs. Hepplewhite have understood if Mary had been more forthcoming about her plans? Unlikely. Which is why I sometimes wish for a world that permits and accepts “otherwise engaged” and does not pry into what that might mean.

Thankfully, I have among my friends a few Mary Lindsays who would understand if I said I needed some unscheduled time to recover from a packed calendar, or who are trying themselves to infuse their lives with a little more serenity and sanity.

Recently, one such friend and I made plans to see an art show and scheduled it around an afternoon party she already had agreed to attend. When we discovered that the art show was starting later than we had thought, I suggested we abandon the plan so that my friend could go to her party without having to rush. Kind and accommodating soul that she is, she wanted to “make it work” by having us get to the art show a little earlier, perhaps catching the artists as they were opening their booths.

I reminded her of a conversation we had had a few weeks earlier about building enough time into our schedules to get to where we are going, instead of rushing. That particular day, she had multiple commitments in wide-ranging locations and she later told me that the afternoon of seemingly nonstop driving had been exhausting.

After she finally agreed to skip the art show and let me go alone, she wrote: “You’re right. I’ve been trying to make my life more peaceful, which means not doing everything I’d like to.”

It took fortitude – for both of us – to come to that decision and to resist social messages that urge us to keep moving and to collect as many pleasures and diversions as we can – even if they’re not very enjoyable in the long run because they’ve left us tired, ill, or just plain irritable.

Doing one thing on a Sunday afternoon is not easy when everyone else is doing – and talking about – three or more. It can feel, at first, like you’re missing out or, perhaps worse, not as important as all those people with crowded calendars. Our world, after all, values activity – and the more of it the better. It loves the biblical Martha who was busy in the kitchen while her sister, Mary, sat at Jesus’s feet, seemingly oblivious to the work that had to be done.

We are told, however, that Mary has chosen “the better part.” And when I follow her example and that of Mary Lindsay, so have I.

In good company

“Nature does nothing in vain.” – Thomas Aquinas

It is a welcome visitor to our little woodland patch who doesn’t call wildflowers weeds and sees beauty in brush piles.

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One of several brush piles that shelter birds and other wildlife.

When such a person stops by as one did recently, I smile in silent gratitude for his or her appreciation of a setting that is friendly to birds and other living things, even though it lacks the carefully cultivated, meticulously planned look of the suburban gardens I so admire.

For years, after looking at more orderly yards and gardens, I would return home with tinges of regret that my place paled in comparison to the visions of manicured loveliness I had just seen

But mostly now, those feelings are infrequent and easily forgotten when I hear a Wood Thrush singing in the spring or watch bats swooping overhead on a summer evening. Even in the fall, with leaves tumbling down as a reminder that winter will soon set in, there are delights to savor in migrating birds and the restful sounds of the earth settling down at the end of a busy growing season.

Each day, I am reminded that much of what we enjoy was here long before my husband and I began preparing to live in this spot nearly 14 years ago. From the beginning, we saw ourselves as interlopers more than conquerors and were determined to minimize our intrusion as much as possible.

Still, on the November day we ventured in, carrying colored string and spray paint to mark trees that would have to be felled, I still remember feeling anxious and not a little sad. Even though we were moderate in our choices for cutting – probably too much so for the sake of what would be built later – I felt like an invader.

Pictures from a week later when the big machines arrived show me smiling. I suppose by then, I had resigned myself to the idea of what we were doing. I’d like to think remembering that sense of incursion, though, kept us both in check as we began to develop the site by adding a small barn, house, and trails through the woods. Always, we kept in mind what had been here when we arrived, a pattern that has continued to this day.

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Jewelweed allowed to grow around a fallen log.

Even as we occasionally fall victim to the prolific poison ivy around us, swat at mosquitoes, and encounter the digging habits of chipmunks and squirrels, we have resisted most interventions that would eliminate what some might consider nuisances. Our brush piles, built up with fallen tree limbs and providing shelter for wildlife, are just one testament to this. Another is our choice to relocate piles of fallen leaves rather than burn or bag them as refuse.

Elsewhere, as I make an early spring effort to pull innumerable starts of native Jewelweed out of some areas, I let them grow in other spots, remembering that the hummingbirds will be enjoying nectar from their orange flowers in late summer.

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This sprig of Joe Pye weed popped up late in the summer between some stones.

When I notice foliage being gnawed by who-knows-what insect, I take some comfort in thinking of the culprit as food for a bird, frog, or toad, satisfied that I haven’t poisoned or repelled an avian or amphibian friend with an arsenal of gardening chemicals. Likewise, milkweed, the bane of our farmer friends, is allowed some space because it is a host plant for the Monarch butterfly.

And when I find salvia, coneflowers, and Joe Pye weed growing in cracks between the flagstone and popping up in places I know I didn’t plant them, I think fondly of the birds who are most likely responsible for adding such lovely, random diversity – and more food sources – to our landscape. It is good to know, too, as our recent visitor reminded me, that birders and others share our passion for an environment that is friendly to living things besides humans.

Most importantly, though, I cherish the serenity that comes from living in harmony and partnership with the creatures and plants of a place that predates me and from recognizing and cooperating with its great design in the mind of the One who conceived it.

From emptiness, fullness of joy

The Phoebe nest is empty and its occupants have moved off into the trees, leaving the garden to wrens and hummingbirds.

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A House Wren pauses briefly in the garden.

In relocating their fledged chicks to a place with more cover, the Phoebes have lifted a curtain on our surroundings, revealing activity we had barely noticed during their frenzied feeding phase.

Suddenly, it seems, we are hearing and seeing afresh the chatter and flitting of House Wrens and the movements of Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, both of which seem to have claimed the territory formerly ruled by the Phoebes.

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A Ruby-throated Hummingbird over the Bee Balm.

Now, instead of watching the aerial feats of flycatchers, our eyes are trained on the hummingbirds feeding on Bee Balm and Salvia and the wrens busily tending their young in an assortment of dwellings.

We are appreciating anew the songs of cardinals and robins, the bold whistle of the Great-crested Flycatcher, the varied sounds of the Tufted Titmouse, and the simple notes of the Black-capped Chickadee, all occasionally punctuated by a Phoebe crying “FEE-bee, FEE-bee.”

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We last saw a Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher during the spring migration, so were quite pleased when this one showed up under the summer sun.

We have been on the lookout, too, for birds that seemed scarce, likely because they were having their young, and now are reappearing more frequently closer to the house. Downy, Hairy, Red-bellied, and Red-headed woodpeckers and Northern Flickers have shown themselves again along with a Red-eyed Vireo and Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher we had seen earlier in the season.

As in life, it seems the absence of something we had become accustomed to seeing has given us fresh eyes and ears for other things we might not have noticed in our midst, or had taken for granted. Just as the departure of a high-achieving first-born can open our hearts to the quiet beauty of a younger child who has been living in an older sibling’s shadow, so changes in our landscape have the potential to enrich our awareness and appreciation of what is around us.

When we allow change to show us what is present instead of what is missing, we hear and see things that may have been obscured or drowned out by our focus on the very thing we had cherished. Just so, if we can bear to be quiet and brush away the distractions that drive our culture, perhaps we can open ourselves to receiving that which is given only in stillness.

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One of the last photos taken of the Phoebe chicks before their departure from the nest.

The Phoebe chicks, by the way, fledged on July 10. They were in the nest when I left that morning and gone when I returned in the afternoon. The day before, we managed to snap a few last photos of them in the nest. For days afterward, we saw nothing more than one adult, but my husband has since discovered them in an area of pine trees on the edge of the woods.

With a change of season approaching, we know it won’t be long before they will be moving on, along with the other migratory birds who have been with us in the spring and summer. When they leave, another curtain will be pulled back on a garden fading into fall, revealing a new landscape. May we look on it with eyes that are open to seeing its gifts instead of longing for what is passing.