Sitting with a
sparrow swarm
beaks tapping on
my picnic table.
Hoarding seed
scattered from
visitors after
an earlier
binge.

Some hop
underneath
where much
of the food
has fallen.
Rustling the first
Japanese maple leaves
to turn red,
fall,
then die
brown
in my unkempt yard.

Others are gluttons
(seed parts cover
their yellow mouths)
in desperate need
of a napkin
if their grandmas
showed up for
this feast.

Squirrels hang
upside down
from toenails,
prying the last
of the black oil
flower seed
from their
feeder mesh
jail.

I sit,
a spy
in the last
of the day’s sun rays.
A rare occurrence
in this Oregon
autumn.

Noisy,
but quiet.

I was talking to Brendon about something this morning, clearly important, while gazing out the window when I inserted, “oh, the nuthatch found us!” in the middle of my sentence. Brendon looked downward, shaking his head, rubbing his eyes with his left hand, his distinct tell that I’d done it again.

Birds distract me.

A couple of years ago I hung a few bird feeders in the backyard. I kept a bird journal and started keeping track of my visitors throughout the day.

…

And, I’m back. Sorry, I left there for a second. I heard a sparrow chirping and found him eating the remains of the feed soaking in the rainwater. I had to put out some new seed. Don’t worry, he’ll be back. He hangs out in the rhody with his spouse.

Where was I? Oh, right.

I loved knowing who showed up everyday and which type of seed they preferred. It was really cool to look back a year later and see who showed up when, (assuming migration was happening? What do I know?), and who didn’t. I could tell you a whole bunch of other things I’ve learned just noticing the birds. Like how the bold scrub jay doesn’t even wait until my foot hits the step before he’s on the new pile of food I just poured. Or how all of them know my cat isn’t a threat. At all.

I learned to notice.

Watching birds out my window has been a comfort to me in the midst of long and hard working from home days. Days spent reading lesson plans and research papers. Days when my brain needed a break from my computer screen; needed a dose of something real.

I don’t remember watching birds a lot as a kid, but a visual of red cardinals, blue jays, and dark eyed juncos eating on at the feeder outside our dining room window on a winter day, leaving tiny bird feet prints in the snow is a strong memory. I do remember my grandma and her feeders filled with birds outside her urban Pennsylvania home. She had feeders and food for every type of bird that could possibly fly by. She had bird things everywhere in her house. People gave her gifts with birds on it (please don’t get me gifts with birds on it). She is the reason I know what a titmouse is and don’t say, “Heh, she said titmouse” in a middle-school-boy-type-of-way under my breath.

The first time I realized birds were a distraction was when I took a Myers Briggs test for work a long time ago. With the results, we were handed the “Prayers for Myers Briggs Types”. At first I didn’t get my prayer, but after affirmation teasing from friends I thought about it and, wow, that was me. For several years if I interrupted a thought with a brief but important mini thought, then returned to the original thought, my friend would say, “Look! A bird!”

The only problem is now, all these years later, I can’t remember what the original thought was.

At this point, I suppose, birds have taught me to notice more than just look.  To notice means to think from beyond the window. To participate. To listen.  To think deeper about small things that matter.  To see nature in detail.

I’ve learned to stop during my busy day and notice life happening right outside my window. Life that is precious and small. Life that is harsh and hierarchical. Life that is important and real. Life that happens whether you notice it or not.

Look! A-nuthatch-poking-at-the-sunflower-seed-feeder-upside-down-with-his-long-pointy-beak!

Apparently, we’re a slackline family.

This is what Brendon grinningly told me as I asked what the FedEx driver brought us from The Clymb. Again. Another package from The Clymb. That boy needs serious The Clymb intervention. Eyes sparkling, he said he got it for free (plus shipping) and the way he can manipulate internet deals, I’m guessing he’s right, especially after he rubbed the free fact into the face of his coworker, who is, apparently also a slackline family. Just to be clear we’re the free slackline family, they are the The Clymb prices slackline family (to which his coworker slapped his forehead and yelped, “doh!”). Heaven help the full price slackline family. Free (plus shipping) is where it’s at.

Or so I’m told.

What does it mean to be a slackline family?

“Is it zip line?” I asked, afraid.

“No! It’s where you walk and balance on the line. You can even go yoga on it!” He said as he showed me moves on the lines of our kitchen faux tile floor (including ankle wobbling and knee buckling, then catching himself before he “falls”).

“So, it’s like a tight rope.” All I could picture was Phil Dunphy and his back yard tightrope.

Apparently, I’m married to Phil Dunphy.

This is actually, ok because despite Phil’s awkward weirdness, he’s loving, creative and cute in his own way.

Just like Brendon.

And he’ll be loving and cute annoyed when I make him watch an episode of Modern Family with me.

Despite our small backyard and lack of trees, we will somehow have a slackline.

Somewhere.

Because he’s determined when it comes to things like slacklines, or anything that ends in the words “board” or “bike”.

I was sitting on the couch yesterday, after the arrival of the slackline, and caught a glimpse of Bren in the front yard. I watched him walk down the sidewalk in front of our neighbor’s house in the rain.

Later I asked, “Why did you walk down the block in the rain?”

“I went down to the park to see if there were any good trees for slacklining.”

Apparently, we don’t have trees to support our new status as a slackline family. We do have a slackline kit sitting on our kitchen table, endorsed by the LA Times. And, we do have a very enthusiastic dad that will somehow figure out a way for us to be a slackline family.

And it will be fun, because life with Bren is fun.

That is certainly worth the shipping costs from The Clymb.

The house is quiet. And a mess. Old quilts unused for years now billow on the floor on top of the heat vent. Our couch, made up of several cushions that are never in their place, is in its mismatched arrangement for the day. Two remain on the floor next to the blankets, a cozy spot for each boy. The heat goes on, the quilts rise up over their  legs like a hot air balloon ready for lift off.  A cushion softens the bookshelf backrest. Manipulating Star Wars action figures to match the story imagined in each head made the time before school pass by quickly.

When the boys leave and I’m finally ready to head out too, the pets choose their prime cozy spots for the day. The dog creeps slowly from his bed on the floor toward the couch, sheepishly climbs up, turns a half circle and lays down, hoping nobody noticed. The old cat cuddles in the blanket left behind on the vent with enough folds in it to tuck himself into a valley of warmth. Star Wars guys still lay beside him, but he doesn’t mind the tiny gun pointed in his direction. He only opens his eyes a little just to make sure I’m not going to disturb his peace, then closes them again and sighs.

I’ve spent part of the past 10 years colored some shade of crazy.  When my first baby was home, safe in my arms after a 13 month adoption process I cried all the time.  A sad cry.  A deep deep cry, new to me in 32 years of crying. I asked my doc about it, she asked me a few questions and said that I was “clinically depressed”.   Labeling it like that was weirder than the deep deep cry.  I took some meds, visited a therapist who cured me, and in a year I was seemingly back to normal.

Always on guard against the crazies making a return, I remained sensitive to times of year, lack of sunlight, and Molly Ringwald suicide movies.   I traced my first bout with crazy when I was a junior in high school and Molly starred in a TV movie about a high school suicide pact.  My teen idol and fashion icon was on TV.  The topic of the movie, I cared less about.  Televised during February sweeps, I watched and was moved.  I wore black for the rest of the month, which wasn’t difficult for me to do since I had a penchant for wearing black anyway.  I was sullen. I think I was depressed.

When my post adoption depression dissipated and I started to wonder about my lifelong melancholy tendencies, I pinpointed this TV show as my first blue period.  The time of year wasn’t lost on me. January and February seemed to be low months for me consistently throughout my memory.  Seasonal Affective Disorder? Perhaps.  The irony of making the Pacific Northwest home and its popularity for SAD cases has not gone unnoticed.

My second kid also made me crazy.  When the process for baby #2 was underway, I was very aware of my feelings and kept them in check. The waiting for my second boy was easy compared to the first. No worries. It was good.

I didn’t realize that I was coo-coo brains again until I wasn’t.  When small boy turned 5, I felt a sense of freedom and relief that was so obvious, I thought I could see it.  As a toddler, it took a lot of practice for him to learn to do important things, like don’t run out into the middle of the street.   Things the first boy learned at 3, took his brother two extra years.  He’s not slow, he’s just Asher.  The anxiety and worry that accompanied those moments with him initiated a revolt of brown pigment in my hair.  But the moment he blew out the candles on his bald eagle birthday cake, I got my brain back.

I wasn’t depressed during that time, but I was constantly anxious and an annoying control freak.  Another flavor of Coo-Coo brains.  When I trusted that Asher would stop at the corner of the block, wait for me, then look both ways before crossing the road, my world got brighter.  The birds out my window fluttered about with tiny ribbon sashes and flower petal confetti.  Better yet, I felt 5 years younger.  Despite the gray hair, I was a born again 36 year old. Hallelujah! Pass the collection plate.

I still have my days of crazy. The week between Christmas and New Years tends to be a downer.  January and February still make me nervous. But my boys aren’t driving yet, so I’m hopeful I have a few sweet years before I’m Coo-Coo brains once again.

A recent funny conversation on Facebook:

S:  So are we going to do the thing for DaLutz for sure?

K:  UM I REALLY WANT TOOOO!!!! tell lutz to organize it!

Me:  Hey! I’m not the one with the busy high school schedule!

S:  Do you know we’re planning on doing for you?

Me:  no! what??!?

K:  shhh don’t tell her! haha

S:  I know I won’t! It’s a surprise for a special teacher in our lives!

K:  GO TO BED!!

S:  You TOO! Hehehe I’m so excited! She’s never going to know what hit her!

K: nope!

S:  Hehehe!

M:   Uhm.. Hello.. Other favorite students of Lutz. Were we being invited?

K:  course girl!

S:  Sure I don’t see why not! Lutz be prepared!!

M:  Ahh wooo hoooo hooo! LOVE YOU LUTZ!

S:  I think everyone does! Afterall she was our favorite teach

T:  AHHHH what is going on?!!!

S:  Something that is awesome!! I’ll tell u tomorrow at school!

from Bren to Amy date Sun, Dec 13, 2009 at 10:11 PM subject Reminded me of you

hide details Dec 13 (4 days ago)

Found this. Reminded me of you. http://bit.ly/72SBFq

…

During the long laborious journey of picking up friends and older brothers after school, we are well protected.

It’s all Brendon’s fault.

I often have a song bouncing around in my head, but for the last 4 days, I have had the same song playing in my noggin over and over.  It’s not annoying, but it’s like when U2 went mainstream and I turned off the radio whenever I heard one of their songs so I would never get tired of it from the overplay. I don’t want to ever get sick of this song.  It’s pure genius, actually. This song.  Its infectious melody, witty lyrics, make me laugh each time I realize I’m trapped in the web of it’s amazing hook.

It all started when Bren put Eagle vs. Shark on our Netflix que.  He put it there for me because it was a Sundance winner, quirky, from New Zealand, and quirky.  He knows me, that Bren.  He knows I love the quirky. I did love that movie. He chose well.

I got to thinking the next day about the actors in the movie so I looked them up on my trusty movie source site and found the actor and then looked to see what else he’s done.

Then I saw that he had a show on HBO. And because we only get 11 channels on our TV, I’ve never seen this show.  I’d surely like to and surely will thanks to other avenues. Somehow I ended up on youtube watching all their clips. I may be behind, because of my lack of HBO. Maybe all of you out there have also seen this already.  I am 40 now, slowing down. I remember some of the cool & crafty mom blogs I read referenced this song for the same reason months ago, but I didn’t get it then.  

Now I do.

Why is this Flight of the Conchords song so particularly juicy? It totally encapsulates my French speaking abilities.  The lyrics are right out of a first year French text book, and as a person who can still recite the first French dialogue she ever learned in 1984, I totally connect with this. Veronique? Mimi Chantel?  How about you?  You were much better gaining the language than I, but c’mon… doesn’t it just take you back to our l’école avec Monsieur Ettienne? “Écouter et répéater”? The Scarlet Pimpernel? 

Ok, the song. I’m sure it will still be in my head tomorrow. Feel free to join me. The boys are singing it this very second, and I bought the MP3 from Amazon. It’s a keeper.

Consider yourself warned.

We have a hawthorn tree in our backyard that I really hate. I never thought I’d actually hate a tree, but I do. I would love this tree from afar, but right out our back door, it’s a nuisance.  It drops leaves and berries all year long, too much for our up-keeping  attempts. It’s branches all end with a thorn (thus the name) that is ripe for poking a boy or two and puncturing a perfectly good Croc.

Winter hit us here like it never has, leaving us mostly snowbound for the better part of two weeks. I’ve been wondering how our temperate climate wildlife friends have coped with such a change in their environment. I got some bird seed for the ground feeders, but was surprised to realize I’m glad for the hawthorn tree.

Our squirrel friend comes and hangs out in the tree and feasts for a couple hours a day.  It’s funny and a bit nerve-wracking watching him run his ice-covered power line highway, with slips and great saves.  He makes it to and from our tree just fine.

I love watching him grab and eat the red berries, throwing the seeds to the ground, but will mostly likely curse this guy when hundreds of tiny hawthorn tree babies pop up all over our yard in the spring.  For now though, I’m glad it provides a meal or two during this snowy season.