The Buck Stops Here by Barbara Quinn

There was a young buck in my backyard yesterday. What a gorgeous creature. I counted six budding points on his rack. Off in the woods behind him, was a female deer who was probably his mate. This is the time of year that the deer often venture into my yard. There’s a large doe that also comes to the bottom of the feeder. Sometimes she sleeps there at night. I’ve also woken up to see a red fox sitting on the hill back there. I guess they all sense that my yard is safe and a good source of food.

There isn’t much out there in my area for them to feed on, and my shrubs and plantings make the perfect deer buffet. The young buck was munching at the bottom of the bird feeder on the spilled birdseed. My back yard is a large open space and I really don’t think he should get used to being out in the open that way. When he heard my husband open the garage door, he raised his beautiful head and stared at him. Then his gaze followed Tom when Tom returned to the kitchen, and the two of them stared at one another through the large glass window, my gray-haired husband and this young, curious creature. The buck was glorious when he raised his head. What perfect musculature across his chest, what gorgeous coloring, and what a downy coating on those antlers. For a moment I held my breath at the beauty. And then I realized this creature could be shot if he looked at a hunter that way. I wanted to run out and clap my hands to scare him off. Tom moved away and the buck froze. Behind him the female watched the scene cautiously, her head raised. There I was doing the same, watching from behind my own mate. Pretty funny how similar we are. Soon Tom’s car rolled out of the driveway and at the sight and sound the two deer moved back into the woods, but not quickly enough for my liking. At least they had a little fear. It’s so hard to keep them wild when they are so beautiful and near. A part of me wants to befriend them, but I know I must stay away.

I am grateful for their presence not only in my yard, but in the world. I am glad I can provide them with a haven. It’s the least I can do for I receive so much joy from being the beneficiary of magical scenes like this. I am humbled by their beautiful unassuming presence.

Mathematical Equations of Perfection in Nature by Kat Magendie

“Nobody’s perfect,” I thought as I took my mountain walk one morning. “Is this a feeling of joy?” I wondered as I inhaled clean mountain air. Alongside the road I walked that morning many wildflowers and wild grown plants, some unique and rare and beautiful, grow seemingly random. A Daisy caught my eye, then another and another. I wondered, “Is there a perfect circle of yellow inside that flower?”

I am not a mathematician, and indeed, mathematics puzzles me, frustrates me—always logical, always right, always perfect? I am such a rabid Right-Brainer. I imagine the right hemisphere of my brain is swollen and pulsing, the synapses firing off chaotically, but with their own kind of weird organization when necessary to be in polite society; however, I imagine my left hemisphere as a bit flat and aloof, sitting stoic at a desk while reading important stuff that it won’t share with the right brain (because the right brain can’t or won’t listen).

I wonder then, if a mathematician were to measure the golden inside of the Daisy, would it be a perfect circle? It looks to the eye to be. Is it? I need to know, for the eye gauge is not enough; is the soft sun inside of the Daisy a perfect circle? Who will measure for me and then let me know? And if it is not, would I enjoy the Daisy any less? Why of course not. I just have a need to know if there is some order to the Daisy that I never noticed before. I imagine mathematics both calms and excites the innards of the left brainers as my creative chaos both stills and energizes my right brain.

Are there other “Orders To The Universe” that mathematics can solve? Somewhere out there are people whose left brains pulse like my right brain and can figure all this out.

But this morning, I’ll just be grateful for the daisy, with the (perfect?) little happy circle in the middle. I’ll be thankful there are left-brainers who can figure out the mathematical equations of perfection in nature.

Butterfly by Kathryn Magendie

Every year the butterflies come. The first time I saw them, I thought something was wrong, that somehow the butterflies were disoriented and ended up at the bottom of our gravel driveway. But then, the next year they were back, and the next, and next. From what I can tell, these could be Pipevine Swallowtails, a butterfly that frequents these mountains. Whatever kind they are is not important to me, the butterflies themselves are. Every late spring or early summer they rest at the bottom of my driveway. At times there are twenty or more of them, landing and then lying there, fluttering their wings. When I walk our dogs, they flit away, hovering near, and wait until we leave before they land once again in their designated spots. Some are already dead, wings spread. Whenever I have to drive out, I go slowly, giving them time to disperse, and they do, in a slow lazy dance, as if they really do not, most certainly do not, have time for this human’s antics.

I wonder why they are here. Is it a mating place? A meeting place? A dying place? I can’t help but imagine the butterflies has been coming to this one spot for hundreds, thousands?, of years, and the development has not stopped them. I am glad we have kept our spot as wild as possible. We haven’t landscaped, preferring not to have a "yard." Our property has plants and flowers that are unique, rare even, and we are careful to honor the ancient quality of this place. The first late spring here, when the butterflies came, I picked up a dead specimen. He was perfect, his body still, but the colors, the beauty of him made him still seem alive, as if I only had to touch him and he would lift his wings, flutter them, and then fly away from me. I carefully placed him in the palm of my hand, studied the color and craft of him. Then, I took him inside and placed him among my rocks, feathers, bark, bones, shells, and other mountain things I find. He stayed for a while, then as time passed, he could no longer sustain such beauty and began to fall apart. I took him then, because I understood I’d done something I should not, and I returned him to his place on the mountain. The wind picked him up and carried him away away away. I watched. I wondered. I said, “Thank you for allowing me to have you, just for a little while.” The butterflies come, every year, and I wait for them, gratitude for their beauty and constancy filling me. My Mountain is not really mine, yet it is.

How Grateful are We? by Angie Ledbetter

A Chinese proverb most often attributed to Confucius says, "Don't curse the darkness -- light a candle." I love that quote and say it to myself sometimes when I'm tempted to curse more than just the "darkness." ;)

When tempted to wallow in misery or sadness, I step outside whatever environment is causing the intense feelings of bleakness and get a glimpse of something refreshing. Today I sat outside in the early morning. The sun wasn't out of bed yet, but you couldn't tell it by the varied bird calls and songs filling the air. A cool breeze played in the outstretched arms of my Dad's mature fig tree. I'd gotten a decent night's sleep and had an aromatic first cup of coffee in hand while I breathed in the smells, sounds and sights surrounding me. I steeped in the light of the coming day instead of its mostly dark beginnings. Ahh.

Something else I've found refreshing is taking a gratitude test. Although there are many, this one is only six questions and scores come back immediately. Now it's official -- I'm immensely grateful -- the quiz proves it! And that reminds me that I'm thankful for this blog. It gives me frequent opportunities to look around, over, under, and beyond the moment to find treasures I'd probably otherwise miss.

Take the Gratitude Test

Sounds of Silence by Nannette Croce

Those who live with man made sounds all around them may long for the silence of nature, but nature is rarely silent. The sounds are merely drowned out by all the manufactured noise.

Thirty-odd years ago when I first moved to this ex-urb of Philadelphia, warm, moonless nights brought blackness beyond my window screen, but not silence. In spring it was the peepers, later in summer, the crickets. During August summer days the cicadas. Some nights a barking fox would tease my dog, starting up each time he quieted down. Then there were the owls, hooting the same rhythm over and over. In the mornings the two-toned cluck of a pheasant under the bush and, of course, the birds waking with the sun. In winter the rustling of a skunk or raccoon snuggling up against the house to keep warm.

These sounds haven’t disappeared, not all of them anyway, but most of them are lost under the constant swoosh of traffic on the nearby highway, sirens––police, fire, ambulance–-at all hours. Planes, trains, and automobiles. The new noises expand exponentially, but so gradually that we don’t even realize what is happening and forget the underlying sounds ever existed.

But sitting on my patio on summer nights, sometimes if I concentrate very hard, I hear them again. Not over the man-made noise but beneath it. These are the sounds that really matter. These are the sounds of life and new beginnings.

Unlike the newcomers, I know they are there, and I’m grateful for that knowing, because it makes me remember to listen.

Getaways by Angie Ledbetter

"Time for work - yet take much holiday for art's and friendship's sake." ~ George de Wilde

I'm thankful for this past weekend, as I got a chance to run away with women friends to a sleepy little bayou town for two days of communing with each other, nature, poets and other writers at an annual seminar.

There's always something interesting to learn, but more importantly, I get to experience the feel of a feather-soft bed and pillow, fresh coffee brewed in my hotel room, the relaxation of a couple hours' drive, the sharing of meals and thoughts with others whose company I greatly enjoy. I'm grateful for these opportunities and thankful they come my way a time or two every year. Even though I worry about what's going on at home -- this weekend was one of my son's Jr./Sr. prom and I missed the excitement of watching him don his first tux; sharing in my daughter's happiness in her new college life; the proudness I experience watching one son play school baseball and his brother compete in an State algebra tournament -- and in general, being available for all the mom things that happen every day of my "regular" routine, it was nice to be doing something different.

Without the very healthful and necessary-to-the-soul down times away to recharge my own personal batteries, I'm sure I wouldn't appreciate the never-ending stuff that goes on with my family nearly as much. As a bonus, upon my return, we gathered as a family to celebrate my dad's 71st birthday. What a way to end my mini-vacation!

All in all, a great weekend...one which I hope to repeat soon.

Manatee Therapy by Barbara Quinn

I was lucky to escape New York's winter for a few days. I visited Anna Maria Island, near Sarasota, on Florida’s west coast, in aptly named Manatee County home to many of the creatures. The beach was a short walk from my friend’s house, through a grove of banyan trees. The air was clean and soft, the sand silvery bright and so hard-packed that sneakers were the best thing to wear for walking. I didn’t sink into the sand. Rather, I crunched along the shell-filled surface.

Dozens of pelicans flew overhead and then dive-bombed straight down to the turquoise water to catch fish. The shells on the beach were tiny and pastel-colored, reminding me of the sunsets which were muted grays, pinks and blues. Apparently sharks like to feed offshore at sunset so I avoided swimming then and was happy to watch the dolphins cavort. Last year, an egret visited the house in the morning. He moved slowly, stalking insects, his white body in stark contrast to the greenery. A neighbor told me he’s partial to hot dogs. Maybe that diet did him in since he didn’t appear this year.

I enjoyed watching all the different wildlife: the lizards, the green parrots, the cormorants, ibis, herons, and most of all the manatees. I saw several of the huge, brown critters hanging out in local canals. These gentle, endangered creatures know how to live. They are herbivores who eat pounds of grasses in deep cool waters and then seek out the sunny shallow canals where they hang out near the surface to get warm, their brown bodies looking like stones rising out of the water. They’re big and lazy and staring at them makes you slow down too. I had no trouble making like a manatee, eating my fill of grouper and local fish instead of grass, and then lying down on the beach in the sun. It’s time to hit the treadmill before I am mistaken for a manatee.

The manatees are onto something. There’s nothing like plopping down someplace and watching what’s happening around you, especially when the place is warm and sunny. The worries and troubles of daily life slip away. Now that I’m home in winter I lie in bed at night and remember what it was like to sun myself on the beach. And instead of counting sheep I count manatees.