Writings, Spring 2005

Ok, I admit it. I'm being incredibly lazy and not really blogging at all. I'm going to put up another packet of old journal entries from last year that are really interesting. This was an especially meaningful time in my life because it was the last semester of my senior year of college, always a time of much introspection, nostalgia, and questioning about the future. Anyways, I think one of the reasons I use old writings a lot in this blog is because it gives me time to really think about what I've written before I decide to definitely post for the world to see. I think these are worth it:

Saturday, February 5, 2005
My day started early – 6:00 a.m. – as I entered the hordes of society for the distribution of tickets to the Duke v. UNC basketball game. My roommate and I waited on the Dean Dome steps and swapped stories – getting stuck in a tree and wetting the pants, various situations of being the beneficiary of avarian shit. A nice way to pass the time until we heard the blessed numbers called out “17522, 17523”.

I rejoiced in Saturday’s warm weather. In an early bout of spring fever, my housemates and I had bought some native flowering shrubs for the garden a couple of weeks ago. The warm, beautiful morning was a perfect time to plant. After some deliberation (“The Piedmont Azalea can grow 10 to 15 feet tall – We can’t plant it by the front door.”), appropriate homes were chosen for all. We switched off digging holes and battling off the evil English ivy. While taking plants into the backyard, we saw the red-shouldered hawk who likes to pay our yard a visit every now and again. First, we heard the fussing of littler birds and squirrels. Then, we heard the hawk: “Kee-yer, kee-yer!” We spotted him perched in one of our tallest trees, surveying the area. After a few more calls, he took off and flew right over our heads, so that we could see the distinct bands on his tail and pale underwings. Then, I planted a bunch of seeds I had gotten in cartons. My spring fever was satiated for the moment – hopefully to remain relatively dormant until around March 21.

I spent much of the day indoors, unintentionally. I did homework for a few hours and then fell asleep for a few more. I woke up to an empty cupboard, so I took a walk to the grocery store. There is a nice trail from our neighborhood which parallels the ramp from highway 15-501 to highway 54. I noticed what beautiful color the highway signs and stoplights offered through the foliage and chain-link fence against the blue sky backdrop. I thought, “Wow, even an ugly highway can be a little pretty.”

So, after my successful forage, I was still restless, so I took a walk to see how far I could get before dark settled in. I met one fellow walker, who greeted me: “Not bad for February, eh?” I tried to get to the Battle Forest trails at the back of my neighborhood, but the trails are off-limits at nightfall, and by the time I got there, the streetlights were humming pools of light in the seas of dark. I returned, and on my trek homeward, I looked up and saw Orion.

I really like Orion. He was the first constellation I learned. He’s so distinct and easy to spot – but so amazing. He contains Betelgeuse – our nearest star. Right at that moment, the light I was seeing and calling Betelgeuse had left Betelgeuse about 2,000 years ago – and the rest of the constellation’s lights even before that. And Orion’s sword contains a fuzzy nebula, which is swirling gasses around to form stars. And another reason I really like Orion is that I can see him anywhere – even in the light-polluted, street-lit Triangle.

Saturday, February 19, 2005
I've started seeing and hearing the red-shouldered hawk all the time.

Last Tuesday morning, it was just a beautiful morning (and day). It was warm, and I had gotten up especially early to get ready, without being tired at all, and all the birds were singing and out all over the place. I saw many birds that morning as I began my walk to school and I was taking note of them all: the oriole, the cardinal, the titmouse. And, as I rounded the bend in my road onto Arrowhead, the red-shouldered hawk was sitting on the lowest branch of a tree close to the road, so that I could see his every detail. Then, he spread his wings, and sort of slow-motion flapped his wings a couple of times and glided across the street just ahead of me, landing in a cedar tree.

There is something about seeing a majestic bird like that that makes you gasp. I don’t know why. They are – literally – breath-taking. When I think of that moment, I don’t just think of the hawk. I think of my sudden awareness of my breath, my breathing, the air. And the hawk, (s)he was breathing that same air. And, the cedar tree, was breathing, too, stomatally.

I decided there and then to tarry on my schoolward journey to see what the hawk might do. I was well rewarded for not rushing. First, I decided to try making a few hawk-like noises at it, which came out more like some rather embarrassing squawks. The hawk did not care to respond (I don’t blame him), and was probably very weirded out by such a broach of instinct (and rightly so). But, he also didn’t seem too bothered and remained pretty nonchalant. He plucked a bough from the cedar tree and flew off with it in his mouth. It was so symbolic. Peace. Shalom. He must have used it to build a nest (which probably means I’ve actually been seeing and hearing two hawks rather than just the hawk.); I can’t imagine any other reason for a hawk to behave that way. For me, it was a moment of presence.

I do not know what life means. But, for a moment, I knew that life is. We exist – the hawk, the cedar, me.