Amberwing’s almost Noon

Becoming a Naturalist, Part 31.

hallowenpennantfemale smith

Female Halloween pennant, Celithemis eponina, Fremont County, Iowa. Photo by Robert Smith.

By Jack Phillips

Early morning in the little cabin, coffee is on. I drag the table out back to the edge of the woods, into the dappled shade cast by birdsong. Towhee, bluebird, parula, cuckoo, vireos two kinds. Summer reduces my friends to happy trickles and so they stumble in as though by chance. Naturalists of our ilk are like that, being poets and philosophers and musicians and what-not and so-forth, students and artists and professors (a dog) and such characters believing in summer.

What a good day to write poetry, so we crowd around today’s teacher to take all the help we can get. We tumble, spin, and ponder the rhythms and lines assigned for today. For whom do we make these clicks and vowels? Is this day not enough for wrens and crickets? Now picking up the scent of a muse, we chase downhill to a weedy pond, Lake Victoria, surely named to amuse a long-ago local.

Late morning warm on the dock, some write and some doze and some watch a dragonfly circus. Pondhawks, widow skimmers, whitetails, amberwings, Halloween pennants, blue dashers. The shadow of a buzzard slides across the pond; sunfish suck off bugs stuck on limey duckweed. Swallows sip and skim. Everything loops and climbs and dives, swoops except for us, baking in the day and happy, cool feet in the water. Amberwing circles back to say:

“I take sunlight at dawn like my leafy perch until in heat I chase the things that eat things that eat the sun. Still I am the flesh of the morning star, hard candy, amber in fossil form living still.

All that I am and eat is stolen by your hunger and even sunlight is bent and stripped, ruined! by your hunger.

But not today. I have a Sunday pond and your eyes and your love and hopefully your love oddly, I hunger for your love and a world without you.”

My feelings hurt but seriously: why should she believe that we seek to do good and not harm, and believe that we can learn the difference? “Believe me when I say that we compose a few lines not so much to create something new than to be created anew, to become more creaturely and kin. We want only to share this moment with you, this sun, this space, and not to take up too much of either.” But she remains unconvinced. Bullfrog comments in the distance and to him we exist only as smelly weirdos of sunscreen and deet. But he seems sweet on one of us, commencing to croon whenever she laughs.

By and by we speak and move less and the wild world resumes the business of wildness, forgetting us gladly. The sun grows heavy in the form of passing time; images come to us on slight breezes being just now composed or imperfectly remembered. We drift on a wave of snoring frogs and nooning peeps and whispers, breathing in pondlife and  outpouring desire.

In Iowan bluffs what goes down climbs sweaty back up and so we do. Lunchtime overflows with delicacies fit for lower primates and now we browse hand-fruit and hummus. Ginger snaps go fast. Back out back at the edge of the woods in dappled birdsong we read our poems and laugh, having taken enough sun to welcome a snooze; the weight of our sapiens sins thins and slips with the yawning of our wilder selves. Someone reads a fresh poem as I study a tick traversing my blanket. A tiger swallowtail makes this ridge, bee balm and coneflower, a dreamy circuit. He is undeterred by the birdish hunger for those who suck nectar from things that eat the sun, and unimpressed and surely annoyed by our clever versifying.

Sphinx of the Southern Loess Hills

Genevieve Williams, poetry mentor of the day, gave us an hour to wander and read and write. The good thing about reading poetry, or trying to write it, is that it slows you way down. If not, our friend Chelsea may not have found something fat and slow and green.

sphinx kalmiae

Larva of Sphinx kalmiae. Photo by Chelsea Balzer.

Something so big and colorful should be easy to identify. But not so! That it is a sphinx moth larva is plain enough, but there are around 50 species of sphinx moths documented in Iowa. It looked to me like a species belonging to the genus Manduca, but our good friend Dr. Ted Burk set me straight. It is Sphinx kalmiae, the fawn sphinx. A nocturnal pollinator of the deciduous forest, the larvae feed on ash leaves and those of other members of the olive family. The fat green caterpillars, like wandering poets on a summer’s day, seek the cool and shady forest. Breezes stir us under high canopies and together we do our good work.                                                                                                            –Jack Phillips

July poetry in the woods at Waubonsie State Park. Contact Jack at thenaturalistschool@gmail.com. 

Seeing with Unworn Eyes

On August 30th, 1859 Henry David Thoreau wrote these words in his journal:

“Indeed, it is by obeying the suggestions of a higher light within you that you escape from yourself and, in the transit, as it were see with the unworn sides of your eye, travel totally new paths. What is that pretended life that does not take up a claim, that does not occupy ground, that cannot build a causeway to its objects, that sits on a bank looking over a bog, singing its desires?”

Of course, we do not hang on Henry’s every word. And at times we argue with him (or at least I do). But we do want to succumb to the wild light that burns within, to read the earth with the soles of our feet and to see with unworn eyes, and to wade into the bogs of our wild desires. The mission of The Naturalist School is to find our way into nature and to help others to do the same. Walking is the way. So is writing. And art. And meditation.

If that sounds good to you, we will be at Waubonsie State Park and other locations on Sunday mornings in July, guided by wild poets, artists, and woodland spirits. And songbirds, dragonflies, and toads. And frogs.

Contact me at thenaturalistschool@gmail.com.

–Jack Phillips

woodhouseneometamorphTS

An unworn toad (new metamorph, Anaxyrus woodhousii), June 30th. Photo by Troy Soderberg.

 

Odonate Poetry this Sunday!

The dragonflies are glorious in July! We will watch them and write some poems.

meadowhawkpondhawk male

Sunday morning, July 8th with Genevieve Williams and Jack Phillips at Waubonsie State Park. No experience required, only curiosity. And a notebook.

9am – noon; optional afternoon time to write and hike. Tuition: $10 donation requested; free for TNS members and students. 9am – noon. Prepare for rugged hiking and wild accommodations.

Contact Jack Phillips at thenaturalistschool@gmail.com for details and to register.

saffron-winged

12-spotted skimmerRS

Loess Hills dragonfly photography by Robert Smith no kidding, with his phone.

Things of Speechless Strength and Kisses

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Mycological studies. (Photos by Robert Smith.)

Friends,

Of fungi, Ranier Rilke wrote:

Long since, it has ben their job to make the soil
vigorous with the source of their free marrow.
…as they sleep
beside the roots and grant us, from their riches
this hybrid Thing of speechless strength and kisses. 
 waubonsiefungus and moss
Sometimes in fact today, I want to wade through ferns and snakeroot under high canopies to quiet spot and breezy to read Rilke, letting the Sonnets to Orpheus become sonnets to oak and hickory, fungus and frog. Green shadows against hot sky. Let’s do that on Saturday!
mossylog
We still have a few spots open for our Poetics of Sticky Mysteries retreat on Saturday with poet Genevieve Williams and mycologist Katie Thompson. We will hike and write and find quiet moments to wait for Sappho or Orpheus or the muse of your choice and maybe a beatnik or two, perchance wandering transcendentalists chasing the ghost of Thoreau. And there will be bright and slimy creatures to celebrate the flatness of being and the primal words that just might find us. The spores of a poem. And a cool cabin to take our rest, sack lunch, check for ticks.
Teloschistes chrysopthalmus
 Let me know if that sounds good and visit the Summer Nature Writing Retreat page above. And if you can come a day early for the ecology workshop, we still have a few openings. Visit the Summer Oak Woodland… page for those details. In any case, embrace the heavy hush of summer in a wild place nearby.
— Jack Phillips
More from Rilke:
Creatures of stillness crowded from the bright
and unbound forest, out of their lairs and nests:
and it was not from any dullness, not
from fear, that they were so quiet in themselves,
But from just listening….

Bombifrons in Love

Spea bombifrons, the spadefoot, neither toad nor frog, is rarely drawn from deep burrows but for love and later, for love’s spawn to become yesterday’s tadpoles, only to be found by those who secretly walk in secret places, wildly, wild.

We hope June finds you walking thusly. Or come with us!

Jack Phillips.

Max'sspadefoot(robert)max'sspadefoot

Spadefoot photo by Max Soderberg. (Spadefoot photo by Max photo by Robert Smith.)

Reading Rilke by the Kickatuus

(Becoming a Naturalist, Part 30.)

by Jack Phillips

canopy at pahuk

Canopy by the Kickatuus. (Photo by Robert Smith.)

 

With all its eyes the natural world looks out

into the Open. Only our eyes are turned

backward, and surround plant, animal, child

like traps, as they emerge into their freedom.

(Rainer Maria Rilke, 8th Elegy.)

 

With each step deeper into these woods I am out of step with everything else that lives here. I feel the ground and beat my heart and vibrate my nerves and slide my eyeballs across the green firmament above and beyond it blue. I move in each of my parts at a different rate but not very much at all with the rhythm of this place, as much as I desire it. The Kickatuus beside and above us flows innumerable currents with each cycle and riffle, blood and run somehow finding the pulse that makes the river and watershed One. I wonder if my friends are feeling it too, but refrain from bringing it up lest they nod politely in my general direction. So furtively I pull Rilke’s Duino Elegies from my pack to sneak a few verses. We are supposed to be birding.

Last week a Pawnee man walked where we walk this morning. These waters and the bluff above are sacred to him. It is here that the world of his people began, it is here that animal wisdom was shared with humans, it is here that humans were welcomed into the circle of creatures. My friends and I walk around the edge of that circle, ever outside looking in, ever longing to look from the inside out with animal eyes. Or at least I do. The Pawnee man came from Oklahoma to pray the night into dawn.

Every human tribe once belonged to the primal circle of creatures, but now our clumsy presence makes an intrusion. Better that we would spend our time here in contemplation and of this we are reminded by an angry great-crested flycatcher after having interrupted his sexual affairs. We walk on to the very edge of the river and are chastised by a man-bird once again, having interrupted a kingfisher’s fishing for himself and his mate. He patrols this territory and finds himself busy this time of year with husbandly duties and a sacred circle to tend.

Kingfisher hovers

between spirit and story

between throat and fish.

In fact, it was right here that Kingfisher discovered a murdered boy drifting by. At Kingfisher’s intercession, the animal elders of the sacred circle elected to revive the boy. He was brought into the cosmogonic cave and taught the wise and medicine ways that humans have now forgotten, with the possible exception of last week’s Pawnee man and his people. Our species is bad at keeping wisdom and wildness. Not like a bird, in Rilke’s verse, “which knows both inner and outer, from its source.” Or even a gnat, for whom “everything is womb.”

What the kingfisher knows (and even the gnats that bite my eyelids) belongs to each of us in our creatureliness. Listen! Secrets whispered to us in the womb speak to us now in wild places. Rain falls and falls harder as we slip and climb up Pahuku, island hill, sacred bluff. Skinned and soaked and muddied, we shelter under a great-grandmother oak at the summit. She has been known to the Pawnee for many generations, growing within earshot when the first stories were told.

pahukuoak

Taking shelter under Pahuku oak. (Robert Smith.)

In the Circle of Bodies

aprilsnowshado

Early April, southern Loess Hills. (Robert Smith.)

(Becoming a Naturalist, Part 29.)

by Jack Phillips

We take this robin as a sign of spring, but three weeks in we still dress for winter. Our way of living is novel and only as old as the recent days of our species; we live in linear sequence of wardrobe. But her kind evolved in places like this and may have wintered here since the Pleistocene. The heat of her blood, 105 degrees by day and cooler at night, is governed by solstice and equinox and runs hot longer than it did a month ago. She lives by daylength and dawn, pulse and orbit, little circles within big ones, always free, here, now, primal, wrapped in rhythms even older.

She owes her being

to the fire in her flesh and

her flesh to this land.

A year ago in these Loess Hills we saw flowering bloodroot and dutchman’s breeches, ground plum and blue-eyed grass. Today, nothing. The robins have reasons enough to gurgle, pipe, and cheep-bleep-bleep with plenty of food by way of juniper berries and chilly worms, and a south-facing slope for to take their ease and there, so do I.

Out of the wind it is time to eat an orange. The robins tell me things but don’t much care if I listen. I turn my face to the sun and to their voices but their lyrics elude me. These are songs of of forgotten human nature, familiar and sweet like this orange but strange. In this moment, on this hill, we are bound by the pulse and shape of this place. Together we are bodies becoming cosmos: primate, robin, oak, and earth.

This spinning orb we ride

spawns, hatches great mysteries

while I eat my snack.

I would love to bask and write and listen longer, but I have other things to do. So I take the ridge and a cold blast to join my friends, having split up to find a missing man, now recovered. I for myself have not come all the way back but that’s okay because we know the pleasures of slow and quiet walking, the kind that gets you happily lost in the woods.

After an hour of contemplating every sedge, lichen, feather, and sprout, we point and gaze through a grove of shadows at a cankered old oak. A broken branch collar has been shaped into a basin by fungi and rain, and robins gather like supplicants around a sacred font.

Circle of heartbeats

each in turn flits, perches, dips.

Robins come to drink.

The three-ounce bodies melt away at our softest approach. In town we can almost pet them, forgetting the primal land and blood that made them. At a backyard birdbath amongst the mowers and croquet they are as wild as the rarest bird and as wild as the better part of human nature.   

 

birdbathoak

Bird-bath oak, where bodies come to drink.        (Troy Soderberg.)

 

April 21st: spring birds and wildflowers, Harrison County, Iowa. April 22nd: Poetry as a way into nature, in Fremont County, Iowa. Details here.