Monthly Archives: August 2023

Belonging

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Multi-branched sunflower with many yellow flowers, tall with green leaves.
One sunflower plant has all these blooms!

This year one volunteer sunflower plant came up next to the patio, starting small. Now it has expanded into this multi-branched extravagantly flowering giant! Doing a little research, it seems to be a native wild sunflower, because of its branching habit and the size of its flowers, and its continuing blooms. It is still one plant though, a community of flowers that is connected at the root, and much loved by all sorts of bees, other insects, and birds. It is easy to see how they belong to this place and to each other.

bumblebee and honey bee perched on center of yellow sunflower
Bumblebee and honey bee on center of the sunflower.

What does belonging mean? It is easy for me to get caught in a “not-belonging” wound, the scar of a childhood moving from place to place, always starting on the outside, trying to find my way in, feeling invisible and unconnected. It is not that I haven’t had some times of belonging–there was the group of friends at college, the group of activists at the Catholic Worker or the women’s peace camp, the lesbian community in Boston. Changing perspective sometimes took me away from earlier forms of belonging, sometimes into new communities–sometimes not. In some ways I belong to my family of origin, but my lesbian identity and feminist politics created a deep barrier.

On this personal journey, becoming a UU minister created an avenue for me to nurture community, to bring other people into a sense of belonging. And in that ministry, I had a form of belonging, too, right at the center of community, but also always a bit set apart in my role. And it also meant moving once again. Even though I have retired, I am still a bit set apart because of the role of a minister. Reflecting on it, I’ve also experienced a form of belonging in my connections with ministry colleagues. But the wound continues to shape the ways I navigate the current chapter of my life. I continue to wonder, “Where do I belong?”

As I explore various facets of belonging, the feeling remains elusive. Do I belong to this place like the sunflower and the bees? I am not indigenous to this land, it is Wabanaki land. When I reach back to my own ancestors, language is a barrier between us–I don’t speak the German of my father’s ancestors. I don’t speak French (even if I understand a little), the language of my Quebec ancestors, and even of my distant Innu relatives in these times. I don’t belong to Nitassinan (which would be my matrilineal homeland) or Quebec or Austria or Germany. I don’t belong to an ethnic community. What does belonging mean in white America, especially for those of us who reject the racism of its founding?

All these thoughts are coming round in a scattered fashion. When the feelings come up in me of “not-belonging,” it helps me to remember these childhood wounds, these societal wounds. I can acknowledge and honor those feelings but then make a choice to open my heart to new possibilities of interconnection. I am becoming interconnected to this land, as I tend the trees, appreciate the wildflowers, make habitat for birds and frogs, eat the blueberries that grow. There is a reciprocity that is developing between us. I must choose to open my heart to new people as well–not dwelling in the old fear that there will be no room for me, but being curious about the ways that we might be interconnected already, or the ways that we might find to connect right now.

Today I see one more lesson about belonging in a tall pink cosmos flower that we didn’t choose or plant, but somehow it rooted itself next to the road we live on. It is now blooming on its own after the rest of the plants have faded. It is not in the “color scheme” of the roadside garden bed. I guess its motto is a variation of the old adage: “Bloom where you are planted.” Bloom wherever your seed happens to land.

One pink cosmos flower on tall stem with feathery leaves, next to road, near greenery.

Native wild flowers

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glowing yellow goldenrod flowers on tall stalks, with dark green background
Goldenrod flowers are in bloom.

We have now lived in our home in Portland for 7 years, and are gradually getting to know the plants around us. We have our share of invasive plants, but today I want to highlight a few of the beautiful native wildflowers that are blooming right now in our yard. They come up on their own, and Margy has encouraged them by pulling invasive species, and leaving certain areas alone as she mows paths around the back yard.

I believe our goldenrod might possibly be the solidago sempervirens, or seaside goldenrod, native to eastern North America. This identification fits with our sandy pine forest soil, and photos online look similar. But it is very difficult to distinguish between species of solidago. Solidago is considered a keystone species, and has been called the single most important plant for North American pollinator biodiversity. They are very loved by many bee and butterfly and moth species. We love them too.

Tiny orange flowers on thin stems with oval serated leaves, droplets of water on the leaves.
Jewelweed after a rain.

Jewelweed grows profusely at the back and sides of our yard. Impatiens capensis is also called touch-me-not, because of the way the ripe seeds pop open when touched. It often grows near poison ivy (which we don’t have) and has traditionally been used as a remedy to prevent the rash caused by exposure to poison ivy. This year it has gone a little crazy all around our old white pine, and in Margy’s mound bed nearby. Hummingbirds and bumble bees are their major pollinators.

tall stems with small yellow flowers at the tips, many plants in 1/2 wine cask planter, on patio near deck railing.
Evening primrose in an old half wine cask container.

I got to know evening primrose last year, when it was the favorite plant for goldfinches after it had gone to seed. This year, it has self-propagated into two containers, as well as all around the patio and orchard. Oenothera biennis is a biennial plant, forming a small rosette the first year, and then in the second year shooting up to great height before blooming. It is native to eastern and central North America. Evening primrose oil is considered medicinal for a variety of conditions, though we haven’t tried harvesting it for such.

evening primrose closer
Evening primrose, closer look at the blooms.

What I love about these three species is that they grew on their own. We didn’t plant them, we just began to notice them and appreciate their presence. True gifts from the earth. There are many others we have begun to notice as well. It takes a while to learn about them and to identify them. It feels like such an important part of finding our way into earth community.

Bird visitors

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Mottled brown and cream juvenile cooper's hawk on grass
Juvenile Cooper’s Hawk on the grass.

Excitement in the yard this morning! I woke to see out my window a juvenile hawk standing in the grass between the bird feeder and the elderberry bush. I went outside to take a photo, and they seemed undisturbed by my presence–I got within 4 yards of them. At one point they turned in my direction, checking me out. I didn’t really want them to be stalking the birds that come to the feeder, so I looked back at them. After a bit, they turned and flew into one of our spruce trees.

Juvenile Cooper's Hawk facing me, with yellow irises and yellow legs, cream colored breast with brown markings.

But that wasn’t the only excitement. Later, after doing errands and coming back again, I heard a wren chittering in the yard. I saw that a small bird was caught inside the screen tent, flying from side to side, unable to find a way out.

During the last two days I had heard a tiny brown bird chittering away over near the Joe Pye Weed and perching on the fence of our neighbors. I thought perhaps there might be a nest in the underbrush there, because the bird moved about like they were trying to lure me away. The Joe Pye Weed is so tall that it towers over the fence and over us, and with other tall wildflowers nearby, it would make a very secluded area underneath. I saw and heard enough to identify the bird as a wren.

Pink flowers on tall stalks of Joe Pye Weed.
Flowers in bloom on the tall Joe Pye Weed plants.

So yesterday, our friend Sylvia came by to tend to her herb garden–she is the one who originally planted the Joe Pye Weed, and other native plants that we love. We were sitting out in the orchard chatting, and the wren came back to the fence. We hadn’t seen any wrens earlier in the season. So that in itself was exciting–bird visitors! Maybe a nest.

Small brown/tan bird perched on gray wooden stockade style fence, with greenery behind.
Tiny wren grooming itself on the fence.

But today, I was distressed to find a wren in the screen tent. I went over and opened one of the panels, and walked inside the tent to try to encourage the bird to go out. They kept going away from me, from one screen panel to another, but not out. So I opened up another panel so the opening was wider. I worry about how long they had been in there. They would have to have entered either underneath the panels in the grass, or through very narrow slit openings at the corner of the roof. Finally, they flew out the wider opening and over to the nine bark bush by the pond.

I came back into the house, and told Margy about the wren and the hawk. She was excited too, and told me how much she loves my bird adventures. I love that I have her as an audience for my joy.

Later, I wondered if the juvenile hawk was stalking the wren earlier, and the wren had creeped into the tent for safety. We humans only ever see part of the story. The rest is a mystery. But today feels like one of those days where we really are a wildlife sanctuary. I hope my story can bring a little joy to your day.

First harvests

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Orange slotted container with blueberries half full, and small cucumber, cut broccoli and a few raspberries.
Blueberries, cucumber & broccoli

In the excitement of the fledgling robins, I didn’t post about our Lammas harvest. The photo is of our fruit and veggie harvest of August 1st. It has been a great year for blueberries! We have also harvested some kale–there is more that wants to be cut today– some zucchini, some raspberries, and more cucumbers. Lammas is the first harvest festival of the season, and I am grateful and amazed that despite all our limitations, we actually receive food from this land.

We can’t control anything about this land. We can’t control what plants will thrive each season–no cherries or peaches this year, for example. But in partnership with the land, in our belonging to the land, these moments of yield emerge. So grateful!

Robins at Lammas

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Fledgling robin looking at mother robin who is looking back, perched on gray wooden railing, greenery behind.
Fledgling robin with mom on the deck railing.

Our Lammas harvest festival blessing was being able to watch the fledging of the robins’ third brood of three chicks. (That makes nine chicks all together!) They had been getting active the last couple days so we were expecting it. But what a nice surprise to look out the window and see the first fledgling perched all alone on the deck railing, looking around at the big wide world for the first time.

Fledgling robin alone on gray deck railing looking out to greener beyond.

They probably saw their mother hopping on the ground further in the back yard. (We did too.) Then the mother flew up next to it on the railing for encouragement. (That was photo number one). After looking at each other, they each looked out beyond, and then the mother flew off, and the baby soon followed, alighting high in the hazelnut bushes.

Fledgling and mother robin on gray wooden deck railing looking away from camera toward greenery beyond.

The other two remained in the nest for a little while, but soon the second one flew out toward the orchard. Finally there was just one left. I wandered around outside, but the parents were chirping at me, their warning calls. I saw the parent robins also diving and shrieking at squirrels in the pitch pine tree branches, and angrily calling at a cardinal who came into the cherry tree–too close as far as the robins were concerned. Back inside for a while, I saw the dad robin come to the nest–with a piece of grass in his beak, but I didn’t see food. He sat with the third baby for a while, so tender. After he left, the baby shrunk down into the nest, only its beak visible. Hiding mode.

Baby robin, just head showing above brown grassy nest, with dad robin above and behind in nest, between white painted beams underneath and on side.

I had to go out in the orchard to do some mulching, and then I sat at the patio table. I could hear number three chirping every so often from the nest, their head visible again, and then I’d hear another chirp from the direction of the hazelnut bushes. When I came back inside, I kept an eye on them through the windows. They got out of the nest finally, and hopped along the beam to the other side. While the first fledgling had seem so confident and proud of itself, this one seemed quite scared about jumping from its safe little home. But everybody had left. It huddled up next to the opposite side beam.

Baby robin visible from belly up, on white beam, next to side beam, looking toward the camera.

Finally, the little one started to stretch their legs, and move their wings a tiny bit. They moved up to the very edge of the beam. They hovered there for quite a while. One of the parents came back to the deck railing down below and behind the nest. I also saw a female gold finch perched on the railing in front of the nest. Not sure what that was about. A chipmunk was scurrying below on the patio. I stood still next to the back windows and just watched–I didn’t take any more photos. The gold finch left, the parent left, the chipmunk left. The little one perched on the edge. Then they bravely jumped off.

I heard a flutter of wings against the screen window of our music room, just to the left of the deck out of my sight. I went out the door to observe, and saw that the baby was hanging by one claw stuck in the screen, and flapping their wings against it. I walked to the edge of the deck, reached over and cupped my hands gently around the baby, careful to contain their wings, lifted them to release the claw. I let go and they flew down to the lemon balm patch. Be still my heart. They slowly hopped out onto the patio, hopped over some garden hoses, making their way over to the mulched area under the cherry tree. They hopped into the grass behind, and finally they flew up over the grass into the trees.

And then the nest was empty. They say that robins raise two or three broods a season, and if that is true, they may be done with the nest for now. They’ll feed the babies for a few more weeks out in the bushes and trees. I wonder how all nine of their children are doing? Did they all survive? I hope they are thriving. We don’t see them once they leave the nest, so we never know.

I feel a sense of joy, and a sense of loss, all at the same time. I feel grateful for the privilege to observe the robin family, and for the moments I was able to capture in photos. I feel sad to look out the window and see them gone. I am also grateful that I was able to give them a little shade from the sun, and maybe that helped.