Folks, I sure struggled this month. Spring offers so many ideas and at the same time takes up every extra second. Between the weed wrangling, softball game chasing, mowing, watering, “Mom-I’m-bored-there’s-nothing-to-do-whining, did I already mention mowing?, and then there’s work of course; I plain struggled to find the necessary time to contemplate my “view” for you.

So I laid awake in bed, early this past Sunday morning as thoughts of not only my pending deadline, but so many other things were racing, though admittedly in slow motion, through my foggy brain; inspiration smacked into my North window as if the Gods were throwing me a fast pitch to see if I was brave enough to engage and take a swing. I’m fortunate in that I can see out every direction of my house from my bedroom loft so I sat for a moment at the edge of my bed and watched as this tiny, Quixotic, yellow warbler scratched and clawed at my glassy Northern view. She flapped herself silly in her vain attempt to perch on the smooth, vertical surface and then finally gave up and hopped over to the less resistant, more practical, honeysuckle branch. I made my way down the stairs without breaking my line of vision, I didn’t want to lose her and sure enough, as I’d hoped she might, she opened up and let forth with her characteristic song whose composition can only be classified as heaven sent.

A couple of years ago I read “The Big Year” by Mark Obmascik. The title refers to a race, if you will, where the world’s most avid birders compete to visualize the most bird spieces over a 365-day time period while remaining in the continent. Believe it or not they find in excess of 735 species by the year’s end. They spare no expense and it can get fairly vicious gaining the title of the “North American Birder” for their efforts. I have no intention of cashing in my chips, maxing out my credit cards, and going on that quest at any time in my life but I did make an immediate beeline to my favorite used book store in order to find myself a Petersens: those of you who know birds, know what that is. Since then I’ve studied my small, feathered, highly-conversational neighbors in more and more detail because I’ve found that knowledge can only enhance the enjoyment of just about anything….in my view.

I continued to appreciate my petite friend’s pleasant warble as I waited for my coffee, threw on my oldest therefore softest, most comfortable, holy sweatshirt and my tattered flip flops, grabbed a pen and a notepad and wandered up the short path to my chair on the southeastern end of my trees as I so often do on Sunday before the rest of the world comes to. George Bernard Shaw once wrote: “The best place to seek God is in the garden. You can dig for him there.” I think we each find our “way” somehow and his words seem to get me there just fine with the added perk of not having to struggle with the painful, strenuous feat of the donning of pantyhose in order to impress the other parishioners. I’m definitely in the class of women who could go a lifetime without ever finding the need to wear stockings up to her chest, for any reason. The beaked and furry members of my congregation don’t seem to mind my ratty attire as we worship together under the verdant, emerald and golden-flecked camopy taking the place of the grandest arches of any cathedral, the sweet, enmeshing voices of the birds: our choir, and this old, sun-faded, used-to-be-green lawn chair: my peronal, front-row pew.

Everyone’s gardens at this time are perfection…. I guess that’s the one word I can use to almost adequately describe them. I wish I possessed half the talent of so many of my siblings and could paint the beauty I see. I’d be able to capture the contrast of the glimmering, morning, dew-topped grass against the fat, fluffy, orange and creamy-white, overstuffed, blob that is our cat. He who chose us over all of our equally-worthy neighbors a couple of years ago as if he recognized the two people/suckers who would bestow upon him his rightful position of nobility in their home. He’s parked, in his usual spot next to me, with the tree trunk at his back, ears alert in contrast to the drowsy, smiling, I-could-care expression on this face, obviously listening as intently as I to the warblers, robins, wrens, nuthatches, finches, and sparrows who musically make their way through their day’s itinerary. A train whistle breaks up the meeting as it screams out it’s warning to the folks a couple of miles North of here. My heavy-set feline bothers to slowly turn his head toward the familiar, shrill sound, he cocks it slowly to the side as silence befalls our forest, and finally returns his head to it’s original position once the choir gets back to business.

Our resident squirrel has finally made his way over to the branches arched above the barn behind my garage to vie for my attention with his weekly gift of assorted nuts. He likes to shower me with affection to let me know I am intruding, more than anything I think. The cardinal couple as well are arguing with each other and then the male is the one nominated to step forth and scold me like your uncle might should you mistakenly over-stay your welcome.

By now the rising sun has illuminated each blade of grass and each delicate new leaf. It has also brought that stained-glass appearance to the flowers if you let your eyes go out of focus and it can only happen during these early hours of sunrise before the shadows disappear and the colors fall flat under the direct rays of that very same sun as it climbs higher with the passing of each minute.

And so I encourage everyone of you to take a good old-fashioned Sunday drive this weekend, provided you’ve got the crop in of course. Find a place to park, and turn off the engine in a random alley; you’re all welcome to use ours here in Morse, it’s as good as any, maybe at the top of a hill on one of the minimum maintenance country roads, or best yet: venture onto an old, forgotten, unused car path that winds deep in amongst the ash, elms, and cedars along our bluffs. Lean back in your seat, put your hat down over your eyes, and just listen for awhile. I hope I didn’t loose too many of you with my nirvana-like musings but it’s Spring in Nebraska and as usual; I just couldn’t help myself.

—North Bend Eagle 12 June 2007