I am convinced that the hummingbirds frequenting my feeders communicate with me. No, the heat hasn't affected my good senses. After all, it's not like we discuss politics or Proust or trade jabs. The conversation isn't spoken, so I don't hear tiny voices, but the topic is something very dear to a hummingbird's heart - food.
Over the years, I have observed hummers check the feeder, not sample the sweet nectar inside and simply fly up to the window, then move horizontally in a deliberate, sometimes jerky pattern. They do this once or twice before flying off. Sometimes they return and follow the same pattern.
Actually, it did not take long to discover why they did this little dance. The nectar wasn't so sweet after all. It had become soured by the heat of day or had disappeared completely and the fluid needed a refill. So, I made up new batches of sugar water, cleaned the feeders and refilled them.
Happy hummers. I know that because they returned, took a long drink, then hovered in front of the picture window and moved vertically a few times before flying off to another location. Side to side = "bad food," up and down = "we like this snack."
Scientists have discovered that communications does occur across species, and we are aware of that to some degree, too. Bats are known to be able to send out a sort of radar signal, and decipher the echo as their own, a colleague's or a sound emitted by an insect, or some other creature. And numerous studies have discussed the way dolphins communicate with humans. Same with pets - dogs, cats. When they need attention, pet owners know it by the animal's body language or by their whimpering. When those pets are hungry, they let us know.
In an ultimate example of cross-species communication and cooperation, I once heard a story about a fishing village that had a unique relationship with a pod of killer whales. It seems the killer whales knew where the larger whales were, the ones the fishermen were after. Not having the means to bring down these larger beasts, the killer whales showed fishermen the location. Their quest was simply for the tongues, leaving the rest of the animal to feed the fishermen and their families. A symbiotic relationship constructed through communication.
My hummers are not unique. I have heard of others in different states that hover inches away from a homeowner (the food provider's) face, but buzzing close to the ears of visitors they do not recognize, apparently to say "hello," or "who the hell are you?" I am certain there are plenty of other examples of hummingbird antics that really are means of communicating with humans.
Communications itself is a fascinating subject. The thought that I can write this with a series of symbols and you can look at them, decipher their meaning and maybe even create your own group of symbols in answer to mine is heady stuff. And that doesn't even begin to touch communicating through the spoken word, or art, photography, video, sounds or dance. But the concept of communicating with animals outside the human realm is, to me, nothing short of incredible.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, May 03, 2010
The Descendants
Poised like paratroopers on D-Day, we waited for our signal to jump, to make the leap of our lives, the one we had trained for and from which we would not return. I could feel the wind in my face, all of us could, and our anticipation grew stronger. We had been told countless times not to look down because the act could stir panic in our hearts, and our instructors would have no choice but to shake us loose and let us drop. I tried to resist, but I couldn’t stop myself any more than a child could keep from reaching for a cookie in a forbidden jar. I looked down. Below me and as far as I could see, hundreds more of us who had already taken the leap were standing tall with hands raised in triumph like a classroom filled with students who already knew the answer. Instead of fear, I felt excitement. Soon, if all went well, I would be joining them on the ground, my own arms raised and beckoning those waiting for their turn to come join our noble cause.
Drilled into my brain and now as much a part of me as my own genetic code, I could still hear the words barked at us for what seemed like forever: “Stick the landing, troops. It’s the most important thing you’ll ever do. Stick the landing and everything else will work out the way it’s supposed to.” I wondered how many times I had heard that in my young life.
Soon, a rattle of conversation rode through the group in front of us and I knew their time had arrived. A wave of anxiety flowed through my team as we heard the commands, “Get ready, now. It’s almost time. Be strong, don’t look down. Stick the landing.”
The wind seemed somehow stronger, and the group about to leap shook as they assembled into position. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” And off they went, cut free and surfing the wind, cascading down, each one gently yet, as a group, feverishly like a winter flurry.
The wind was in their favor and the ones who had stuck the landing stretched their arms further, welcoming the torrent of newcomers descending though the spring air. Suddenly and unpredictably, the wind shifted. The group attempted evasive maneuvers as they had been taught to do since the early days of our training. I watched as they tried one stunt after another, exhausting their resources as they drifted further, further off course. A few, just a few, were successful and they were greeted warmly by those who had stuck the landing. But the rest were blown too far away for us to even hear them cry out or curse, if they had been doing either. Those were the ones who ended up falling on hard ground. They didn’t stick the landing, their arms weren’t raised in triumph and, instead, lay motionless at their sides. The anxiety on my team grew and a murmur soon arose that had to be quelled.
The instructors were on it. “Listen up! Listen up!” they said. “Some of them will make it, OK? A great many will not, but we all know the odds don’t we? Now look, it doesn’t mean that’s going to happen to you. Remember your lessons, don’t panic. You feel the drift, you start reacting immediately. You got that?”
We said yes, but they made us say it again, louder and with more vigor so it sounded like we really meant it and I suppose that effect was to console and encourage each other whether we believed what we were saying or not. It didn’t matter. We had little time to ponder sincerity when our own time for a jump was at hand.
I looked down again, at the hard place where most of the last group had landed, and down below where many more of the ones before had ended up. There were more of the latter and I convinced myself that the odds were in my favor.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” And with that, our turn had finally come. There was no more time to worry, to grieve or to wonder.
We floated majestically and I looked around me to find a cadre of butterflies riding the breeze, laughing at the sheer delight of being airborne at last. The wind did not turn, remaining in our favor, away from the hard ground. We drifted and I looked down again. The others were waiting, and I was almost close enough to hear them call out a hooray. But the wind was not finished with me yet and I glided along a gentle current, actually floating up for a moment before cruising close to the ground.
Stick the landing! I had almost forgotten the most important lesson of all. The one that meant a chance at success or the death of failure. I looked around. I was in position. I was almost there. Almost. There! Softly into the grass, a spot all my own, near enough to be within sight of the others but far enough away that I had a chance. I had made it, and I had stuck the landing. The single most important journey of my life, a journey now at an end. I felt a melancholy ache, a memory made from what had become a quest fulfilled. There was little time to think about the past, for now it was time to dig in and allow a new adventure to take root.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Fearless Finches
My bird feeders are hubs of activity each winter and into the early days of spring. Every year seems to attract new animals. There are always squirrels who never understand that black oil sunflower seeds are meant for birds, but are nonetheless entertaining to watch. Doves have been frequent visitors the past several seasons and are quite content to peck away at scraps and fallen seeds although I do admit to spreading bucketfuls of food directly on the ground especially for them. This year, finches have come to the feeders in large numbers. At times, as many as forty purple and gold finches have showed up at once to dine on the most tasty treat seed-eaters relish.
I don't know why so many finches suddenly found my feeders, but I have been very grateful to have the opportunity to watch them during this longer than usual winter season. They fly in and out quickly and occupy the branches of a maple tree where the feeders are hung, taking turns swooping onto a feeder or joining the doves in a picnic style meal on the ground.
For a small bird, I have discovered the finch to be fearless when it comes to watching over the food supply. They are not protective or territorial, sharing the harvest with sparrows, juncos, even blue jays. But they tend to give a gentle nudge when it is time for these other species to move on. I've watched blue jays eat while under the watchful eye of several finches until the smaller birds decide the big guys have had enough. A finch or two will fly in and kick the jay out, apparently asking him to kindly find other venues. Even ruffian black birds act intimidated by the presence of a dozen or so finches and have not bothered to stop by my feeders until recent days when the finch population has begun to seek seeds elsewhere.
Why such a small bird, even in large numbers, seems to control the behavior of bigger, more aggressive birds, I do not know. But I have watched the choreography all winter long as each species gets a turn at the feeders while minding the policing action of a few finches who have accepted a role as the ones in charge of keeping the lines moving and making certain everyone gets their share. No more, no less.
As winter's dull plumage gives way to the striking colors of summer, as natural food supplies blossom and mating season begins in earnest, it will be interesting to watch priorities change and see what these little critters do next, if they stick around. Whatever happens next, for me, it's great entertainment.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Lessons Learned
I sat on a knoll concealed by trees and brushes on the edge of my deer woods one early fall morning. Straight ahead was an old farm road overgrown and brushy save for a small patch of open field, an acre, maybe two. To my left, a tree dropped its hedge apples which are said to be the perfect cure for ridding a home of spiders and which cattle munch in loud bursts. Just to my right the old pond was smooth, the banks containing it in covered with gnarled trees. Behind me, tens of acres of wide open grazing land cross-fenced and still green from last summer's showers.
Nothing much was stirring that morning and even my 360 degree check of the land every ten minutes or so detected little since the break of dawn. But finally, during one of those vision patrols, I spotted something moving. I slowly turned my head to see several deer making their way behind me and to my right, toward the pond. Three does and three fawns. I moved the rest of me just as slowly so I could better discover what was going on.
As I watched, the six of them stopped about three quarters of the way across that expanse of field. The three does gazed at each other and none were concerned with my presence, never looking my way at all so I was probably as invisible to them as an old fallen log or a harmless bush. The fawns stuck close to the older animals and looked anxious.
After a moment, maybe two, the largest doe began to walk in a circle, calmly and in a way that looked decidedly deliberate. The others - all of them - followed her. It wasn't a tight, follow-the-leader type circle but a circle nonetheless.
To my astonishment, the six of them made another circle, just a bit wider than the first and a third one with a slightly larger radius than the previous one. Then they stopped and gazed at each other again, this time even the fawns exchanging glances. The does looked back across the field toward the distant tree line. I thought I was beginning to understand what was happening and I continued to observe, still and quiet from my perch atop the knoll.
Another circle and another. A stop, one more circle and they all ran as fast as deer run off past the pond toward a spring-fed creek that divides one property from another and runs cold and clear all throughout the year.
Only a few minutes later, I saw them. Two beagles sniffing the ground, making haste toward where the deer had been, following the trail and looking up once in a while as if to get their bearings from landmarks and outcroppings.
When the two dogs made it to the confluence of circles, they ran smack into a wall of sensory confusion. They tried to pick up the direction the scent would take them but kept running into another deer path that seemingly went into a different direction. The dogs smelled and barked and kept their noses to the ground for a long time before one of them finally found the way out of that maze of confusion.
But by then, I am certain, those six deer were a mile or more away. And I would bet they did not cross the creek, not right away. I think they hit the water, followed it upstream for 60 or 70 yards and then emerged on the other side to further camouflage their scent. Wise creatures these deer.
I have thought about that day in the woods many times over the years. And I have assured myself that, although there was no language spoken, there was communication, although there were no blackboards or lecterns, there was teaching, and although there was nothing audible to my ears, there was most certainly laughter.
Nothing much was stirring that morning and even my 360 degree check of the land every ten minutes or so detected little since the break of dawn. But finally, during one of those vision patrols, I spotted something moving. I slowly turned my head to see several deer making their way behind me and to my right, toward the pond. Three does and three fawns. I moved the rest of me just as slowly so I could better discover what was going on.
As I watched, the six of them stopped about three quarters of the way across that expanse of field. The three does gazed at each other and none were concerned with my presence, never looking my way at all so I was probably as invisible to them as an old fallen log or a harmless bush. The fawns stuck close to the older animals and looked anxious.
After a moment, maybe two, the largest doe began to walk in a circle, calmly and in a way that looked decidedly deliberate. The others - all of them - followed her. It wasn't a tight, follow-the-leader type circle but a circle nonetheless.
To my astonishment, the six of them made another circle, just a bit wider than the first and a third one with a slightly larger radius than the previous one. Then they stopped and gazed at each other again, this time even the fawns exchanging glances. The does looked back across the field toward the distant tree line. I thought I was beginning to understand what was happening and I continued to observe, still and quiet from my perch atop the knoll.
Another circle and another. A stop, one more circle and they all ran as fast as deer run off past the pond toward a spring-fed creek that divides one property from another and runs cold and clear all throughout the year.
Only a few minutes later, I saw them. Two beagles sniffing the ground, making haste toward where the deer had been, following the trail and looking up once in a while as if to get their bearings from landmarks and outcroppings.
When the two dogs made it to the confluence of circles, they ran smack into a wall of sensory confusion. They tried to pick up the direction the scent would take them but kept running into another deer path that seemingly went into a different direction. The dogs smelled and barked and kept their noses to the ground for a long time before one of them finally found the way out of that maze of confusion.
But by then, I am certain, those six deer were a mile or more away. And I would bet they did not cross the creek, not right away. I think they hit the water, followed it upstream for 60 or 70 yards and then emerged on the other side to further camouflage their scent. Wise creatures these deer.
I have thought about that day in the woods many times over the years. And I have assured myself that, although there was no language spoken, there was communication, although there were no blackboards or lecterns, there was teaching, and although there was nothing audible to my ears, there was most certainly laughter.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Christmas Lights
November is always a busy month with Thanksgiving preparations, holiday shopping, deer season and Christmas lights. This year I got lucky. It was 65 degrees with calm winds the weekend I put up the lights but there have been Novembers past when I worked in weather so cold I could not feel my fingers and times when it sleeted on me and once, after the lights were all in place, that a hailstorm arrived to pummel roofs, cars and Christmas lights with golf ball sized ice.
It's during those bad weather Novembers that I question why I put lights up at all. My kids are grown, one has her own home and my granddaughter, though interested in lights, is probably too young to appreciate them. Oh yes, and Januarys, that's when the lights all come back down again and when I can safely predict cold, blustery days for the task.
When I'm putting them up, I can always count on at least two trips to Wal-Mart to replace a strand of lights that did not make it through the harsh summer of my attic or to add another extension cord because one got used for something else during the off season. I long ago learned that it is far less trying on my patience to replace a $2.38 strand of lights than to repair the non-working culprits. I have even begun preparing during the current year for the next by buying lights at 50-75% off in after Christmas sales although I sometimes find that those, too, meet with a tragic demise in my attic prior to the start of the season.
Last November the weather was pretty cold and I had to escape to the house several times for warmth before finishing lacing up branches and wrapping tree trunks, setting out a lighted moose and three Christmas trees of lights that my dad made many years ago.
And January was cold and blustery, just in time for removing the lights and packing them for storage.
I was concentrating on light removal during that inclement weather when I heard a voice say, "Excuse me, sir?" I turned to find Betty, my neighbor from across the street. "I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your Christmas lights," Betty continued. "I keep my shades drawn most of the time but I looked outside every evening and admired those lights."
What a wonderful compliment. I thanked Betty and she headed back across the street to her home. Betty is over 80 and she has Alzheimer's. She doesn't recall my name anymore but she remembers my Christmas lights. And she found joy in them. This year, I remembered why I put those lights up. This year, they are for Betty and every time I see her shades part, I know she has admired those lights.
It's during those bad weather Novembers that I question why I put lights up at all. My kids are grown, one has her own home and my granddaughter, though interested in lights, is probably too young to appreciate them. Oh yes, and Januarys, that's when the lights all come back down again and when I can safely predict cold, blustery days for the task.
When I'm putting them up, I can always count on at least two trips to Wal-Mart to replace a strand of lights that did not make it through the harsh summer of my attic or to add another extension cord because one got used for something else during the off season. I long ago learned that it is far less trying on my patience to replace a $2.38 strand of lights than to repair the non-working culprits. I have even begun preparing during the current year for the next by buying lights at 50-75% off in after Christmas sales although I sometimes find that those, too, meet with a tragic demise in my attic prior to the start of the season.
Last November the weather was pretty cold and I had to escape to the house several times for warmth before finishing lacing up branches and wrapping tree trunks, setting out a lighted moose and three Christmas trees of lights that my dad made many years ago.
And January was cold and blustery, just in time for removing the lights and packing them for storage.
I was concentrating on light removal during that inclement weather when I heard a voice say, "Excuse me, sir?" I turned to find Betty, my neighbor from across the street. "I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your Christmas lights," Betty continued. "I keep my shades drawn most of the time but I looked outside every evening and admired those lights."
What a wonderful compliment. I thanked Betty and she headed back across the street to her home. Betty is over 80 and she has Alzheimer's. She doesn't recall my name anymore but she remembers my Christmas lights. And she found joy in them. This year, I remembered why I put those lights up. This year, they are for Betty and every time I see her shades part, I know she has admired those lights.
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Shift in Thinking
Not long ago I read that scientists had discovered bacteria, I think it was, that thrived in an environment of benzene. They were trying to determine what new possibilities existed with such a life form, one that could tolerate chemicals so extreme that our conception of how things could live was challenged. And that led to theorizing that our search for life on other planets was misdirected. Perhaps organisms in space did not need oxygen and water to survive and might do quite well with compounds like methane gas or ammonia maybe.
Our paradigms are difficult binds to break. We tend to conceptualize everything based on what we already know or assume we know. That's to be expected I guess. How else would we frame things, at least to begin with, than in terms we understand and with which we feel comfortable? But paradigms build a box we have to escape before we can move forward.
Everyone has paradigms and everyone is boxed in by them, apparently even scientists. Interesting things can happen when we free ourselves and go beyond the limits we set for ourselves and that can happen at all levels. New inventions are almost by definition a paradigm shift. So are new theories, like how life might be supported in other worlds. But it doesn't have to happen at high levels. We can shift paradigms anywhere and come up with something completely new.
When I worked in manufacturing, I was tasked to head a group that would address our attendance policy because our absentee rate was unbearable. The normal thing to do would have been to write people up faster for fewer incidences as part of taking a tougher stance. The group and I wanted to try a different approach. We set aside what we thought we knew about attendance and looked at it from two new viewpoints and only two viewpoints: 1) what do we really want to accomplish and 2) who do we want responsible for accomplishing it?
That was it, our only two goals. With them we realized we wanted to keep the machines running and we didn't want to bully people into running them. So we shifted everyone's paradigms by announcing a plan that anyone could miss any amount of time they wanted whenever they wanted in any increment they wanted. The caveat? If a person missed, it was their responsibility to find a qualified replacement to take their spot.
Gone were the complaints about not being able to take time to watch kids in a school play, likewise gone were supervisors running ragged trying to keep equipment producing and gone were people saying they were not getting enough hours. Gone. Everyone was happy, and productive, and we stopped chasing after attendance offenders like traffic cops and our supervisors went about managing the business. So did everyone else.
All because we were willing to shift our paradigms, throw them out really, and start fresh as if we didn't know what we thought we knew.
Our paradigms are difficult binds to break. We tend to conceptualize everything based on what we already know or assume we know. That's to be expected I guess. How else would we frame things, at least to begin with, than in terms we understand and with which we feel comfortable? But paradigms build a box we have to escape before we can move forward.
Everyone has paradigms and everyone is boxed in by them, apparently even scientists. Interesting things can happen when we free ourselves and go beyond the limits we set for ourselves and that can happen at all levels. New inventions are almost by definition a paradigm shift. So are new theories, like how life might be supported in other worlds. But it doesn't have to happen at high levels. We can shift paradigms anywhere and come up with something completely new.
When I worked in manufacturing, I was tasked to head a group that would address our attendance policy because our absentee rate was unbearable. The normal thing to do would have been to write people up faster for fewer incidences as part of taking a tougher stance. The group and I wanted to try a different approach. We set aside what we thought we knew about attendance and looked at it from two new viewpoints and only two viewpoints: 1) what do we really want to accomplish and 2) who do we want responsible for accomplishing it?
That was it, our only two goals. With them we realized we wanted to keep the machines running and we didn't want to bully people into running them. So we shifted everyone's paradigms by announcing a plan that anyone could miss any amount of time they wanted whenever they wanted in any increment they wanted. The caveat? If a person missed, it was their responsibility to find a qualified replacement to take their spot.
Gone were the complaints about not being able to take time to watch kids in a school play, likewise gone were supervisors running ragged trying to keep equipment producing and gone were people saying they were not getting enough hours. Gone. Everyone was happy, and productive, and we stopped chasing after attendance offenders like traffic cops and our supervisors went about managing the business. So did everyone else.
All because we were willing to shift our paradigms, throw them out really, and start fresh as if we didn't know what we thought we knew.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Fighting Sleep
Have you watched children just before bedtime on a day when they have played hard and filled with fun? There's a sudden burst of energy in a last minute refusal to give up and go to sleep for the day, perhaps a bit uncertain whether the next day will bring as much delight as the one passing into history. They fight sleep as hard as they can and want so badly to stay awake and stretch the day out as long as possible. They play briefly with a toy and abandon it for another, laugh, jump and refuse the bonds of slumber. But finally, they can fight it no longer and they give in to the inevitable. They sleep.
I think trees are like that. They awaken in spring to buds and blossoms that stretch into leaves and spend the summers waving gently in breezes, finding joy in gentle rains and in the animals that favor their branches. It's as close to an extended play day as trees can get and they make it last as long as possible, fighting sleep the entire time. When fall comes, trees expend a last burst of energy, displaying brilliant colors and they try desperately to hold onto their leaves through autumn rains and winds. But finally, they can fight it no longer and must give in to the inevitability of winter. They sleep.
I think trees are like that. They awaken in spring to buds and blossoms that stretch into leaves and spend the summers waving gently in breezes, finding joy in gentle rains and in the animals that favor their branches. It's as close to an extended play day as trees can get and they make it last as long as possible, fighting sleep the entire time. When fall comes, trees expend a last burst of energy, displaying brilliant colors and they try desperately to hold onto their leaves through autumn rains and winds. But finally, they can fight it no longer and must give in to the inevitability of winter. They sleep.
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