Nature

A Pocket Paradise

By / April 8, 2014

Bees are good company. This counts as surprising news to all of my children who tend to run screaming at the first sound of buzzing or glimpse of black and yellow in flight. But I have been sitting for most of the afternoon in the shade of a blooming wisteria and the bees have never once bothered me. They’re too busy digging into the flowers to find the sweetness hidden within. I particularly like the giant black bumblebees the size of my thumb because it seems like they shouldn’t be able to fly at all, but they do. I once followed one in it’s search along half the fence line. She sought nectar. I sought to capture a picture of her in flight. I think she was more successful than I.

Frogs are good company too, sort of. They’re the kind of company that I don’t know I have because they sit quiet right until the moment that I’ve come too close, then the cry out and leap into the water. At first that was all I saw as I walked along the edge of the pond; A motion, a noise, a plunk, and then ripples on the water. It made me laugh. I laughed because I was startled to not be alone with the trees and water. I decided to walk along the circumference of the pond, to see if I could spot a frog before he jumped. I never did. Twenty times I was startled by sound and motion. Half the time I laughed. The frogs were more wily than I. Though I did learn how to turn quickly and watch the frog stroke through the water to hide in the leaves on the bottom. I wish I could tell them not to be alarmed, that they need not fear me. But I’m not the only visitor here and not everyone just wants to look.

This place that we stay is only a pocket in the red rock desert. It is tucked between rock ridge and highway. At night headlights on the highway light the windows of our condo. While the kids swim I can hear trucks as they drive by. There are also other people here, which is sometimes nice and sometimes I wish they would go away. We have to share the space. Share the pool. Share the pond, the frogs, the fish, and the lizards.

We have to share the national parks too. This morning we drove into Arches behind a long line of cars full of people who’d chosen the same hour that we did to enter the park. Many of them turned off at the first big attractions. We drove toward the far end where our planned hike began. This time we carefully selected an easy hike. In fact that was a major feature of our selection process. Each kid wanted to know how this hike compared to that one long hard hike we did two years ago, the one we’re all glad we took, but none of us is quite ready to repeat. We passed people on the trail and listened to the music of their languages. Arches is filled with people who have traveled half a world to be there. It is three hours from my house, tucked into a desert that is mostly boring. A pocket paradise.

I overheard one older gentleman saying he hadn’t seen any arches yet and he’d been there all morning. He was pondering a walk to Sand Dune Arch and wondered if the walk was worth it despite his arthritic hips. I spoke with him for a moment, suggesting the double arch and windows arches as the most spectacular sites with the least amount of necessary walking. We saw him again at Sand Dune Arch. I congratulated him on making the walk. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up, then looked up at the arch. It is tucked in between massive fins of rock, a hidden arch, not often photographed. The man said “I thought it would be redder. I haven’t seen any that look like the pictures.”

Pictures, stories, and social media posts are all curated for point of view. We only see what someone else chose to put into the frame. That gentleman had traveled a long way, and he might never get a chance to see what he expected when he started that trip. I hope that he found ways to be happy with the experience he was having instead of always wanting it to be different. If someone came to our preferred vacation spot based on my descriptions, they might be disappointed at the smallness of the pond, pool, park. These things are not large. There is just a small green place created first by a natural spring and then later by people who wanted to turn this into a place to stay. It is only a pocket paradise, but it is sufficient for us. I notice that there is plenty of wisteria for everyone and no one asks me to share the company of the bees.

Feeling at Home While On Vacation

By / April 7, 2014 / 1 Comment

“This may sound strange, but it feels like we’re almost home.” Howard said at the end of more than four hours of driving. We’d traveled south from our house, made a stop in Goblin Valley State Park and were only minutes away from arriving at the rented condo in Moab.
“It doesn’t sound strange at all.” I said. “I’ve been feeling the same thing.”

This is our fourth year spending spring break at a condo in Moab. We don’t always get exactly the same condo, but it is the same complex with the same swimming pool, pond, stream, and park. I remember our first arrival. I was so tense because we’d never rented a condo before and I was terrified that it would be a huge mistake. The kids pinged all over the place and we were constantly telling them “don’t touch that, don’t jump there, be careful, we’re only renting this place.” It got dark and stormy that first night and Kiki was in tears because she just wanted to go home and be in her own bed with her kitty. We ended up calling the neighbor who had the cat meow into the phone for us. I hardly slept that first night, my head full of stress trying to make sure our vacation would work and stress because work email had followed me and I knew we had looming deadlines.

The next day we visited Arches and started to have all the things we hoped for when we booked the trip. Two days later we were happy to go home, but all of us wanted to come back. So we did.

We’d only driven a mile or so further when Gleek piped up from the very back of the car. “It feels like we’re almost home!” Howard and I laughed.

We pulled into the familiar gravel drive with the rocks popping under our tires. I directed Howard to unit 2, which will be our home for the next three days. We waved at the park and pool, knowing we’d go there soon. The kids all jumped out and quickly unloaded their packs. There were no arguments about who would sleep where, the kids just claimed their preferred beds. Then Howard and I sent them outside to catch fish in the stream while we did our survey to figure out what cooking implements this kitchen had and lacked. There was no need to follow the kids to make sure they were safe. We all knew the safety rules and boundaries.

Link wandered through on is way out to the back patio. “I like this place.” He said. I smiled. Link is not a person who is relaxed or happy if he is uncertain about how things will go. Coming to the condo removes so much of the stress from vacation because we have familiar patterns to fall into. There is real value in going new places and seeing new things, but there is joy in the familiar too. I watched Link, Gleek, and Patch swimming in the pool. The three of them were playing a cooperative game in a way that they rarely do at home, but they always seem to do when we’re here. It is as if the game waits for them along with the pool and the stream. I watched them as bees buzzed in the wisteria behind me and I breathed the scent of the blossoms. It is so lovely to go on vacation and feel at home.

Backyard Critters

By / July 3, 2013

There is a blue jay who frequents my yard. I watch him whenever I hit a pause in my day that allows me to spend a few minutes outdoors. He hops about, tapping his beak against things and peeking into all the holes he can find. I don’t feel bad about watching him, because he watches me too. He flaps from perch to perch, cocking his head to get a better look at the strange human who swings in a hammock from the trees. If our cat, Kikaa, makes an appearance, then the jay will talk to her. Sometimes Kikaa talks back and they have a strange half cry, half meowl conversation. After awhile the jay will fly away to take care of things elsewhere. I sway gently and close my eyes.

Our yard is also home to a garter snake. This is a new and exciting development of which I was informed this afternoon when I got home from grocery shopping. All the kids held the snake before letting it go. I never got to see it, but it is out there somewhere, catching small critters and generally living a snakey life. I told the kids that we’re glad to have a little snake in our yard, as they eat pests. So next time we see him, we can say hello and give him a name, but we probably shouldn’t pick him up. If he’s picked up too often he’ll likely decide to go live elsewhere. Also, I don’t really want my children in the habit of picking up snakes, but I didn’t say that part out loud.

There are nests in our spruce tree. I’ve no idea how many because the tree is too dense for me to see. I hear them though, little twittering sounds that change in volume depending upon if an adult bird has just showed up with dinner. I think they are mostly starling nests. The robins seem to prefer more open trees like the honey locusts. One year we had a little hummingbird nest in our apricot tree, but I’ve not seen any hummingbirds this year.

The apricots are ready to pick, I need to get out with a ladder and a bucket. If I don’t hurry the birds will taste all the fruit first. The grape vines are busy making a September harvest. Then I’ll have to maneuver around the bees and wasps who’ve discovered the split grapes. The walnut tree is heavy with forming nuts. At some point in the future a very happy squirrel is going to discover that tree and we’ll get far fewer of the nuts. Right now we only have to share with the occasional northern flicker. And the blue jay. He likes the nuts and often pokes around on the ground hoping to find one that was missed last fall.

I love the variety of creatures who have decided that sharing space with humans is just fine.

On the Thursday of a Writers Retreat

By / June 13, 2013

The walk along the creek here at Woodthrush Woods is familiar to me, but it feels different than it did in September. In the fall the trees were distinct and individual. I noticed mushrooms and the textures of bark. In June these things are obscured by fresh green growth and somehow the trees feel more like a backdrop. I walk the trails anyway, waiting to see what might catch my eye. Mostly I just get a sense of welcome. In no legal way do I have ownership over this forest. I am a guest who has been fortunate enough to be invited twice. Yet in some unmeasurable way it feels like this forest belongs to me, or perhaps I belong to it. The trees, plants, and land must stay here when I return to Utah, yet I take something home with me.

Howard and I walked together by the creek when the fireflies were out. They turned out to be more abundant on the lawns, but the creek walk was lovely on its own. We saw a pair of snapping turtles in the deep, slow portion of the creek. They’d not been there during the day. We only saw them because they swam away from us to hide under the roots of a tree by the bank. We walked through a spiderweb on the trail back. This was not unusual, but this one stuck itself to the front of Howard’s glasses. It could be seen there, glistening threads in a classic web pattern. Hopefully the spider leaped to safety. I have no argument with forest spiders. They can eat all the mosquitoes.

I am so glad to have Howard here, that he’s being able to do some writing despite the annoying computer he has as a writing machine. I have thus far done very little writing. Instead I have spent most of my energy as support crew, putting out food, putting away food, washing dishes, running laundry, and going grocery shopping. The spaces have been occupied with business email, conversations with my kids, and catching up on the sleep I missed during my travel delays. I still have time ahead of me in which I can write, but only a day or so of it. My trip is shorter on both ends than I would have preferred. It is what it had to be, but some other year I hope to come early and stay late. All signs point to there being another year during which I’ll be invited. I am glad. The company is excellent and I love this forest.

Fireflies

By / June 13, 2013 / 4 Comments

I saw the first on out of the corner of my eye, like a spark rising from a fire which then went out. I watched where I’d seen it until it flashed again. A firefly, two actually, had begun their evening dance. They surprised me because I thought I’d have to go walking by the creek to see them. Instead they hovered in open spaces all around the house, flapping almost invisibly until deciding to light and rise up five or six inches. I know that such sights are common to those who live in the Eastern US. They’re like cardinals, which are common here and do not exist in the Western states where I’ve always lived. I sat while one fly hovered a mere five inches from my elbow. His wings were a blur of effort to keep him airborne, his legs dangled above his abdomen which pointed at the ground. He was a tiny, quiet bug and then he lit and I began to understand why people might believe in fairies.

I don’t really know what I expected of fireflies. I suppose I thought they would be in the bushes and trees, like twinkle lights from Christmas decorations. Even though I’ve heard the phrase “fireflies dancing” I somehow still pictured them lighting up from hiding places. They did not hide, instead they shone from wherever they were, for all the world to see. Then the light would go out and the quiet little bug would move to another spot to shine again. I think these fireflies are among my favorite things. I wish I had the photography skills to capture one of these little flies. I would love to capture, not just the beauty of the light, but also the hovering diligence of the bug who is only bright occasionally. The fireflies work so hard to create this beauty and they will never know that I am inspired by it.

The Trees I Planted

By / June 9, 2013 / 1 Comment


The best time to plant a tree is ten years ago. The next best time is today.

Fifteen years ago I dug a hole in the ground and planted that tree in the picture. It was a tiny little thing that I had to defend from the children and the potential ravages of weed whackers. There was one spring where aphids threatened to kill the entire tree, so we released legions of ladybugs on it. We planted many trees that first year in the house because we knew that someday we wanted to have shade. Life changed and shifted. We spent less energy landscaping and far more creating books. While we were not paying attention, the trees grew. They got big enough for Gleek to climb them. The shade spread to cover most of the lawn.

Yesterday I went in search of a hammock for Link. He’s wistfully asked for one more than once, and given his current doctor’s instructions to avoid sitting as much as possible, it seemed like a good time to add lounging space in the back garden. I’d seen the hammocks and stands at IKEA, they still had the hammocks, but not the stands. I brought the hammock home and strung it between a pair of trees. That tiny maple sapling now bears the weight of two kids without bending. The act of fifteen years ago blesses our lives today because I planted a tree in the right place.

Here at the Tayler house this summer represents a pause before things finish changing. All of our lives will look quite different ten years from now. I could drive myself crazy trying to figure out which things I should plant in our lives right now so that they’ll bless us later. I remember agonizing over where to plant the trees all those years ago. I pondered bush placement. I paced off expected shade radii. Some of the trees that we planted later died. Other trees I could wish in slightly different locations. It is hard to know what our lives will need ten years from now. Instead of trying to plan all of it, I just need to plant many things and see which ones flourish. Also I consult with the master gardener and listen to His instructions.

For now I’ll be out back in the hammock, breathing the scents of honeysuckle and mock orange, while swinging gently in the shade of my trees.

The World is Big

By / April 2, 2013 / 2 Comments

Sometimes I am so focused on the happenings inside the walls of my house, the hearts of my people, that I forget how big the world is.

It is big and wondrous. Skies like these can absorb any stress I care to throw at them.

Of course, under skies like these and with such views to see, it is hard to remember any stresses at all. Two more days of vacation. I think some of my stresses are lost in those skies forever and I’m bringing home the memory of sky instead.

Antelope Island Again

By / January 26, 2013

A week ago today I ran away to Antelope Island. When I got home I Gleek was very sad that I went without her. We talked it over and decided to have a special outing today. Unfortunately for us, the fog rolled in last night and it lingered this morning.

This was the view for much of our trip.

We thought that the day was going to be a disappointment, but the fog lifted in patches and we ventured out to walk in the snow. Every step crunched through a thin layer of ice and into the fluffy snow beneath. If we were walking down a slope then fragments of ice tobogganed down the surface with a skittering noise. It was a day for melancholy photography, but we felt happy.

We even manged to spot a herd of buffalo.

We stopped by Fielding Garr Ranch to say hello to the owls. I wanted to take a hike to go see the place where bald eagles congregate for the winter, but Gleek was feeling tired and wearing overlarge borrowed boots. A long hike would not have made her happy and this was her outing. Also there was the question of whether we’d even be able to see the eagles at the end or if they would be hidden in fog.

Instead I let her get a trinket from the visitor center gift shop and we stopped by the northern point of the island to bid it farewell before heading home. We have plans to come back in the spring when the island will be green again.

Running Away to Antelope Island

By / January 19, 2013

This afternoon I dropped all my responsibilities to go walk in knee-deep snow on Antelope Island. I have a good life full of good things, but sometimes I can’t see them as good until I run away from them for a little while. So my friend and I went to a place where the snow was covered in animal tracks and very few people tracks.

Even out at Fielding Garr Ranch, where there were people structures, most of the tracks were supplied by four legged critters. We walked out on the beach where all the sand was covered in snow. Some steps we walked along a crust on the top of the snow and it crunched under our feet. Other steps found us knee deep in fluffy flakes. We plowed our way through heading toward the water. It was only when I looked back at our tracks and they were wet that we realized we were already beyond the water’s edge. We’d walked out onto the ice.

The silence is something I always notice when out on the island. This time I only noticed it when I stood still. The rest of the time the crunching of snow and my own laughter filled my ears. It is hard not to laugh when trying to walk in the tracks left by a buffalo. His ambling steps required me to make over-long strides which probably would have qualified me for the Ministry of Silly Walks.

It was cold, a mere twenty degrees, but it did not feel cold at first. We were having too much fun exploring and making tracks. Later we felt cold, because our breaks in the car to warm up allowed the snow gathered on pant legs and socks to melt and make the fabric wet. Even then we did not mind. The cold was worth it to crunch through glittering snow, see a great horned owl roosting in a tree, see a barn owl out hunting, look at little mouse tracks across the snow, read in the circling tracks how a fox caught and ate a rabbit. We saw the fox himself later as he paused to make eye contact with a passing buffalo. There were other cars on the island, but we were the only ones to venture forth knee deep in snow.

When I close my eyes I can see the glittering snow, I feel the cold on my face, and I know I have to go back again.

Stories of Today

By / October 31, 2012 / 1 Comment

There have been many impressive photographs today, scenes from Manhattan, Brooklyn, New Jersey. I’ve never been to any of these places, so I view the photos abstractly, without any personal grief attached. Before the storm I never walked that crumpled boardwalk, I never shopped in the below ground shops that now resemble a salty swimming pool. I see the subway and can ponder the feat of engineering it will take to pump that much water back into the ocean, without also having to wonder how I will manage to get to work sans functioning mass transit. Yet I look at the pictures and my brain tells me those stories. Part of me wants to capture in a story, not a description of the storm surge, but the emotion of one. This huge force beyond human control sweeps in and rearranges the lives of millions. I, three quarters of a continent away, can ponder these things because I have light, heat, health, a place to sleep, and normal work in the morning. As do many of the east coast residents, even in Manhattan. That last is a miracle of modern meteorology. We knew the storm was coming and so the people prepared.

Along with the disaster stories, today has other ones. The guy on twitter who deliberately spread misinformation during a natural disaster and then discovered that the internet had the power to unmask him. Criminal charges are likely to follow. Nerds and Geeks everywhere reacted to the news that Disney bought Lucasfilm and there will be another Star Wars movie. Thus Princess Leia becomes the newest Disney princess. The publishing houses of Random House and Penguin are merging, causing yet another round of laments (or rejoicing) that this is sign that publishing as we know it is changing forever. Some news cycles are busier than others. Stories that would normally dominate all the conversational space for days or weeks are only getting a passing glance. Ordinary stories pass untold because people were too busy focusing on the extraordinary.

My story of today had a bright blue sky and sunshine. I followed my task list, accomplished goals, and was able to appreciate how my kids are continually growing into amazing and responsible people. Today contained pieces of larger stories, some of which don’t get told on the internet because my children do not deserve the experience of having their friends read all the embarrassing things their mother wrote about them. I’m just grateful that there were no storms for me or the kids today. Instead we talked costumes and Halloween. I baked cookies.

I have cookies and three quarters of a continent away there are people who had houses yesterday but don’t anymore. Life is not fair. But I hold the memory of other stories. This is not the first hurricane, nor the first storm surged city. Years from now this will be another survival story in a city which has weathered much deadlier disasters. During next few days smaller stories will emerge from the massive damage. We will get to hear of heroes and courage. We will see people work hard overtime hours trying to put everything back together. Some small scale tragedies will emerge and somehow because the size of them is comprehensible, these small tragedies will drive home how big this storm was. There will be laughter, ride sharing, and people gathering in the street next to electrical outlets so that they can charge their cell phones. These things have already begun. This storm is done. It has left behind story fodder, whether we assemble stories of hope or despair is up to us.