Raindrops keep falling not on my head but in the canopy above, a quiet beginning to a new day and season.
Peace comes to the neighborhood in small, unexpected doses. This is the kind of morning I live for. On the outer edges of our habitat, sun chases shadows, and last night’s storms are long gone. But here by the pond, droplets still fall on the leaves above me. The tulip trees generate their own kind of rainfall even after the clouds have cleared.
From the bench, I watch butterflies waking up and drying their wings. A hummingbird flies toward me, we say hello, and she heads to the cardinal flowers, where a few minutes later the spicebush swallowtails sip nectar too. Cardinals chirp, a blue jay squawks, a Carolina wren dives furtively into her nest, and occasionally the green frogs—usually so chatty by this time—emit a quick blurt. It seems that everyone’s enjoying the rare quiet today. The only human voices I hear are those of children playing: a welcome sound of summer, of my own childhood and a world so different from the usual blend of semis grinding over interstate highway rumble strips, men slamming pickup truck doors and yelling to compete with the noise of their tree-cutting chainsaws, mowers racing across neighbor’s yards, and cars and delivery vehicles going twice the speed limit and sometimes crushing smaller beings in their hurry to get somewhere.
I’ll enjoy this while it lasts, this peace that is as short-lived as my wild friends. It’s the time of year when yellow Eastern tiger swallowtail and orange sulphur butterflies flutter on the flowers, and it can be hard to distinguish them from the first yellow leaves floating down from the walnuts. It’s the season to match our grief, a simultaneous celebration and mourning of the people my family has lost over the past year and a half: first my aunt, then my dad, and then, most unexpectedly of all, my 17-year-old nephew. It’s a time of transition, when all the life above ground starts getting back to its roots and its burrows, worrying over nut, pollen and sugar stores that will see them through the winter. There are undercurrents of uncertainty, when mornings are cool, afternoons are hot, and rain could come at any time (or not), weather forecasts be damned; when many of us, like the cuckoos and the wrens, are still busy making more life in the waning light, racing against the sense that we are running out of time. Over the past couple of weeks, the green frogs have felt this urgency, and several times after a long day of clucking and carrying on in the pond, they’ve left an egg mass that forms a shape resembling a heart—but with edges continuously fraying as the mass separates and sinks.
Transitions are never easy for me. Calendars are too boxy and rigid, and even as a little girl I found it hard to make the walk home from school, where homework and snacks and TV awaited. First I needed to rest my brain and sit with the leaves on the side of the road, sometimes for hours, or visit the dog chained in the yard behind the school. We only lived two blocks away, but sometimes I’d wander into unknown territory and get lost, and my mom would come looking for me.
I know where I am now, but my mind is still fundamentally the same as that child’s, wanting to explore during the in-between times. As I finish my new book, which is almost ready for the printer, I know there will always be more to say. But during a time of loss, words are either not enough or too much. Often they come and go before I can make sense of them, getting lost in the jumble of trying to help my family heal.
In the past, I’ve mostly posted meticulously researched articles and essays on this site, drawing on my background as a journalist. I’ve usually saved individual sightings or insights for my books, wrapped them into larger pieces to contextualize them, or posted them as quick snippets on social media. But I might mix in some of these smaller pieces and ideas here going forward, partly because I think readers find them useful but also because I’ve missed this community. Over the years, your own efforts, ideas and feedback have encouraged me to keep following this wild path. I don’t really know where to start again or where the path will lead next on my deacades-long rewilding journey. So I’ll just start with this: Thank you, and good morning. May your day be wildly peaceful too.
hi i love what you do with your garden and the butterflies i am a retired biologist I’ve seen butterflies and nature i enjoy being out in it.
Thank you!
Lovely, lyrical language….
Thanks. <3
Hi Nancy,
What a soul-felt musing about today’s beautiful morning after the rains. I feel it here too. I especially loved the sulfur butterfly and falling walnut leaves observation. And in the huge intermittent storms of last week, our black walnuts released THOUSANDS of leaves horizontally across the meadow – like a harbinger of Fall, which of course, they are. Miss you! What’s your new book? Looking forward to it.
i believe nature has its own language for example the leipodopterans or the butterflies my favorite the monarch with its colors orange black red and white these are warning colors or apoesematic saying it’s toxic and don’t eat it. and its annual migratory cycle traveling thousands of miles throughout the United states and Mexico. of course moths are related to the butterflies winged creatures the monarch butterfly is my favorite bug or invertebrate.
Yes, so many different languages! It would take many lifetimes for us to decipher even a fraction of them, but I’m grateful to the scientists who have decoded a few. 🙂
Hi Audrey,
I’m outside with my laptop right now, watching and listening to more walnut leaves be released. The season has taken me by surprise! I always think summer will be longer. The new book will be out in March. I miss you too! It will be great when we can all get together without so much worry again.
Awesome. Your words drew me into your world for the moment, even though we are miles and miles apart. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks, Susan. <3 Yes, I imagine the change of season is quite different in Texas!
Beautiful! Please write more.
Thank you! <3 Working on it now. 🙂
I always look forward to your wonderful writing. Can’t wait for the new book.
Thank you, Melissa! <3
May they go forth shining and may those who love them be held safely by all the love and memories they leave behind in their going. All hail The Travelers! Until we meet again.
What a sweet and comforting thought – thank you. <3
Dear Sweet Nancy, this posting is a most beautiful testament to who you are and how you are managing surviving this life. Your commitment to the nature kingdom is lovely to behold and is a testament to the way you’re honoring us all.
Thank you for your care of the powers of nature and the forces of the elements, that are obvious. Now, it’s important to take good care of YOU as well.
Many blessings to you and your family in these difficult times and from those of us who feel you. 💓
Thank you so much, Jane. <3 Writing here is sometimes a form o therapy and self-care for me, and I so appreciate that you are reading.
Very nicely written but I am afraid I have to unsubscribe.
I already have too much to read.
Thanks!
I’m so happy to get this post in my email inbox after a long week, and grateful for people like you who write so beautifully about the experience of nature in a way that is enlightening, fresh and always feels like it is written just for me . So looking forward to the new book and wishing peace to you and your family.
Thank you so much, Eric. <3 I think of you guys so often, and I am looking forward to seeing you again at some point.
When things start to become all too much, nature is there to remind us that we part of something not the main attraction. Like the parts of the body, not any particular organ can survive without symbiotic relationship. That is humans with nature. Many do not see or accept and that is where things go wrong. Just a thought.
Yes, so true that we are just one thread among many, woven into a much larger tapestry. Thanks for your insightful thoughts. <3
What a beautiful essay to share here.
We are kindred spirits.
I live in a temperate rainforest where native and non-native plants seed themselves all too easily.
If I’m patient, and don’t weed too quickly, I’m almost always blessed each season with a lovely surprise. The BlackBerry Iris was the first, then a mulberry tree, a pine tree wedged in a rock wall, even milkweed and a liatris looking perennial. I haven’t identified many of the newcomers that I’ve let stay, but they seem a great reward for fighting the many invasives!
Tend to your loved ones and your grief, my god wishes go with you. Thank you.
Thank you so much – and I’m so happy you are experiencing the joys of finding unexpected treasures too. <3 We are lucky to be among these plants, aren't we?
Thank you…what a beautiful essay.
I understand your need for creating space between the various spaces that make up our days – the need to transition between the transitions.
I love to be up early, watch the night become day. And I love those moments after the last light of day when it is almost – but not quite – truly dark.
It’s easy to know one’s self well in the in-between moments. It’s quiet there, almost invisible.
I’m very sorry for your recent losses – may you find peace in your garden, peace in the changing of the leaves.
Thank you – I so love the way you describe it. <3 When we can sit quietly in a peaceful spot, it's like being hugged by all of nature and really helps us tune in.
This is so beautiful and calming! Thank you ❤️
Thank you so much – and thanks for reading! <3
“Loved one, you’re gone; the emptiness is so painful. How can I live without you?”
“No, dear one, I’m not gone; I’m there with you always, in your heart, giving you strength, giving you peace.”
A big hug to you, Nancy, from me.
Thank you so much, Debbie. <3 It's so nice to hear from you. I do feel them here with me a lot.
Thank you for starting my day off with your musings. I too have had a year of loss, but not as devastating as losing someone so young. I’ll be thinking of all of you while a spend time on my new native flower bed.
Charlene, I’m so sorry for your losses, too. I hope you found solace among the flowers. <3
Nancy,
Your beautiful writing has just given me a heart at peace, after a very difficult week. You write so beautifully and eloquently about how important the natural world is to you. I feel the same way ………. I’m heading out to check the frogs and butterflies in my garden now. I will think of your words as I do.
Carol
Thank you, Carol, and I’m so sorry for your difficult week. It helps to know that these words help others too. Writing them down and being able to share them is a form of therapy. A visit with the frogs and butterflies just never disappoints! <3
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. This post is filled with the beauty of life in many of its stages, each one with its own group of emotions. You have expressed them all perfectly along with the sense of what you are feeling. I am grateful that you have shared for my own benefit and for what I hope it has done for you by writing it all down. I wish you more of the peace that you had this morning you write about and in all of your life experiences ahead, whether they be sad, blah or exhilarating. With Love, Kate Smith
Thank you so much, Kate. I feel so lucky to be able to share with others who also find this type of solace and am so grateful these words resonated with you. <3 This morning is another peaceful one, so my heart is lifted again.
✌️👍🏻💚
<3 Hope you are doing well, Alex!
Dear Nancy,
This is beautifully felt as well as beautifully written. I, too, have trouble with transitions, and find that being in nature does help me tremendously. I just wish I were not such a blood-meal magnet for no-see-ums and midges!!! They will cut my nature time severely unless I spray myself with Off! (which I don’t like to do). I fear that if I were able to be in a wild space like yours, I would find it difficult to return home.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
Linnae
Thank you so much, Linnae. <3 I'm sorry you are also tasty. It seems like the presence of biters is mitigated here by so many dragonflies and hummingbirds and others who eat them. But I also cover up a bit some days because I am apparently a good meal too. It's interesting what you said at the end -- because I find that situation in reverse. Sometimes it is difficult to leave home and not be with the critters and the plants!
Nancy, your words – as always – touch my heart. Whether you are writing about the feeding behavior you discovered among the butterflies in your garden, the sounds of the frogs in their pond across the summer, or – as now – the losses you have felt and shared with your family and now us, your readers, I am always in admiration of the stories you tell. The words you use are simple, touching, and give great insight to your soul, the person you are, the way you live in this world. May you find peace and healing in the months to come, and the continued ability to share what you see and what you feel. I, for one, adore reading whatever it is you have to say.
Thank you, Laurie. You made me tear up. I feel grateful to be able to share my thoughts and the stories of these other beings with people like you who appreciate the natural world too. <3
I’m so sorry to hear of the passing of three
Loved members of your family. I send healing peace and strength to you.
I also look forward to reading your next book!!
Hang in there—peacefully and with hope,
Linda Waugh
Thank you so much, Linda! I really appreciate your kind words. <3 I think the book will be out in March.
Yours is a transporting description of these recent late summer mornings in all of their hushed, sun-dappled splendor.
The sudden quiet after the riotous scramble of June and July. The day holds its breath and time is suspended for an enchanted spell.
And then the world resumes its turning.
Thank you for sharing that rare gift of nature, stillness before
its miracles.
Thank you, Adrienne — and yours is a transporting description too! Very beautifully said; you invoke that sense of suspended animation. <3
This was beautiful Nancy.
I love to read your stories/writings and encourage others to read your work in their journeys to develop habitat on their properties.
Linda
Lancaster Conservancy Community Wildlife Habitat
Thank you so much, Linda. <3 There are so many things that are hard to describe regarding the personal joys and rewards of habitat creation/restoration. I figure maybe doing it in snippets somehow can build an overall picture.
Your writings brighten & bless my day. Your insights into nature bring such peace & calm in a frazzled world. I look forward to your new book!!
Mollie
Southwest Missouri
Thank you, Mollie — I’m so happy that they have that effect on you! <3 My new book will be out in March, I think. 🙂
Thank you for this beautiful insightful piece.
Thank you so much for reading, Deborah. <3
Hey- from your research or your wanderings, please help identify this cocoon/egg case/communal insect home: it is a brown, leathery object- about the size of a baking potato, it’s attached to the inside top of my old chicken tractor., resting between two pine trees. I don’t want to open it- might disturb a creature. but I’ve never seen this before!
That is an interesting one! I’m not sure. I don’t recall knowing about one that is the size of a baked potato. Have you tried posting pictures to a Facebook insect group? Or you could also try iNaturalist — sometimes you can get an ID on egg masses and the like there too.
Beautiful post, thanks for your writings.
Thank you so much. <3
How true that we become both a different person and yet stay the child we once were as the years pass. I remember seeing my first snapdragons in a cottage garden as I walked home from school aged 4 after a family move to the countryside. Today they are still the flowers I love.
Wishing you nature’s healing in difficult times.
Those first few years make the biggest lifelong impressions, don’t they? I wish every child could have those experiences. Thank you for your sweet words and wishes. <3
Beautiful and touching imagery. May your family find solace.
Thank you so much. <3
I thank you for this soothing read. I think I share that tendency to get lost in the in-between times. (Just love that phrase!) Surely so much meaning-making and healing occurs in that lost time, which really isn’t lost at all considering how replenished we are during it. I am so sorry for your losses, especially for your nephew who didn’t get a chance to spend countless year reveling in “rewilding” spaces.
Hi Mimi, thank you so much. <3 Let's catch up soon.
I’m a Master Gardener and one of our membership who contributed so much and was a garden writer just passed. I wonder if we could reprint this if we print your name etc. It summed it up so beautifully.
Thank you,
Leslie Paulson
Past President Virginia Master Gardener Association
Hi Leslie, I’m so sorry for your loss. And I’m really sorry for my delay in responding to comments. Yes, of course, or if what you’re writing is online, you can link to this.
Thank you very much
Leslie
Dear Nancy,
I am so very sorry for your losses. 1 is more than enough but 3 and one so young. My sincere condolences to you and your family.
Thanks so much, Lynda. <3
thanks for being open about pain and sadness. sometimes it doesn’t feel ok to tell the truth about feelings.
Thank you, and thanks for reading. <3