Conversations with Nana

Sages tell us be one with the bird.

I am sitting on the couch on my front porch, overlooking the expanse of yard that sweeps up to the wall of hibiscus and the wooden gate. Lazing on the porch would be a luxury anywhere else, any other time. But I’m retired now, and the place is a Costa Rican village where the heat and humidity overwhelm the day. Sleep is not the issue, but rest and stillness prevail, respite from the baking sun and drenching side effects of sweat, thirst, and languor. The porch is wide and long, the length of the front of the house, buttressed by sturdy wood beams dividing the front and balancing the weight of the roof’s extension. From my view on the couch, the yard is neatly framed, with parts of sky and garden edges hidden, a carefully boxed in world. Within this portrait, there is a wire that extends from the roof edge out into the yard and up to the electrical pole on the road’s edge beyond my gate, the perfect perch for the occasional tanager, pausing in the day between avian errands. And one has landed now, calling out his random announcement, I am here, Here I am.

To be one with the bird is to be the bird, ride his wings, see the great swatches of earth as he sees them through his beady bird sight. Today I am feeling more generous, not needing to abscond with the bird and his secrets, but rather to welcome this visitor into my solitude, or is it loneliness? Today I want to share more than overtake. I want to be my own bird, become one with all birds, or perhaps any, or just my one visitor above. It is possible this bird does not see me because he is in sunlight while I am in shadow, tucked into a couch behind wooden pillars and low cement walls. I want to be seen, not in the usual startling way, but to be known in the company of birds.

It starts with a few breaths, natural reminders of the real world, calming, peace making, smoothing. The hardest part is next, turning off the volume of my mind. I am, I want, I need, all must dissolve in this moment, languish effortlessly in the heat, slip into oblivious shadows. Surfacing now are sensations of the body, no definitions, no explanations, no expectations. The feathers come first, cooling actually, unlike fur. Spiny pins extend outward into finer and softer replicas of themselves, until I am covered in feathers. Wings fold against me. I stretch first one and then the other, long and sleek then back again, tucked up to me like a shield. A shudder runs through my body as I ruffle myself, each feathery spear standing up and then flattening like the ripple of a wave. My legs have become rough spindles spreading into smooth claws.

I cannot restrain myself another moment, and I fly.

From inside the porch I fly up into the air. I circle once my visitor on the wire, out of respect and greeting, before I land several feet away along his perch. I have no voice, but of course he sees me. He is alert, but not wary. I hop along the wire to be a little closer, to see if I may approach even more. He does not fly away, or move away, and I know I am welcome. I hop again, then again, until we are side by side. He does not mind me at all as I begin to preen, not me, but him. First, I rub my head along his side, gently, slowly. He is kind, he does not stir. I begin to nuzzle the back of his neck, carefully maneuvering my beak along the quills of his feathers, scraping, smoothing, massaging.

When love is removed from the realm of the mind, which is needy and constricting, when love is allowed to fly expansively, without definition or expectation, what amazing and wonderful realms we can reach. Having met my visitor, I am ready to fly back, like Cinderella running to the carriage before midnight’s stroke exposes her other self, before my mind slips back into gear and says something shattering and foolish, like, oh, look, I am a bird.

On the couch again, I consciously breathe into myself, the self of skin and hair. The bird on the wire, suddenly alone again, calls out once with insistence before he swoops down. He hovers between the porch beams, directly before me, only a foot or so away, studying this human on the couch. We face each other for what seems like seconds, until, either satisfied or thoroughly confused, he flies away.

Molly, my neighbor’s golden cocker, was spayed in her youth, but she still gives off a seasonal estrus scent. She’s not truly interested in mating, but her mixed breed suitor, a much larger and younger dog, doesn’t seem to care about her disinclination to present herself. Molly, contrary to her constant companion during these heady days, is a middle-aged matron, probably a many-great-grandmother by now, having had one litter in her pre-surgical youth. Apparently, she loves her young blond stud’s attention, because when he is not around I see her trot through my yard over to his and then trot back again with him right on her tail, literally.

During these flirty times, old man Spike, who pretty much sleeps all day, comes alive, and follows the amorous pair around like a chaperone. Spike is a tall, muscular type of bulldog, with a broad flat nose and a language in his large brown eyes that ranges from aggressive guardian to trusted friend. He allows the boyfriend close proximity to Molly, but when too close, his warning growl causes Boyfriend to plop down on the spot, as if to say in his own defense, “I’m not doing anything.”

Today I don’t see Spike anywhere, probably tired of all the running back and forth in the futile game of keeping them apart. Molly, an occasional visitor, is sitting on my back porch stretched against the wall. Boyfriend has arrived and is standing next to her watching me to see if I mean him ill will. Satisfied that I don’t, he returns to his business. He is a polite young male, not rough or abusive, without rape in his heart. On the contrary, his mating intention is to spark Molly’s mutual interest.

He starts by putting his nose under her tail for a sniff and a gentle shove. She hardly reacts, except to look at me with a bland expression in her eyes, as if to say, “What’s a girl to do?” She continues to pant which gives her the appearance of smiling. After the licking and nuzzling of her genitalia proves ineffective, Boyfriend steps around and works with her nipples, nosing them like a puppy going for a drink. This maneuver gets her attention, and she turns her still smiling face in his direction. As if a silent signal has passed between them, Boyfriend momentarily glances up at Molly, and then dives back in with greater intensity. He nuzzles her belly and along her side, a lover’s gentle massage.

However, not much has really changed. Molly may be smiling, but her placid body is definitely non-committal. Boyfriend stands up straight again, looking down on her, as if in thought. He repositions himself and lies alongside her, his head next to hers. He lays one paw over hers, which she accepts, and on his other paw he settles his long jaw. The happy couple rest side by side for about ten seconds before Boyfriend begins yet another creative approach.

This time he nuzzles under Molly’s neck ruff, jaw line, and up under her floppy ears. She seems to lean into his caresses, although it’s hard to tell because her back is pressed against the wall and she may simply have no choice. When his roving muzzle becomes more insistent, rougher, Molly finally begins to move and extricate herself from the press of his bulky weight. She stands with her back to him and slowly starts to move a step away – not a real presentation but good enough for Boyfriend. He mounts her, which she allows. He squats on his hind legs like a circus dog, so that, as he locks his front legs through her back ones, he, not Molly, is bearing the weight of his larger body. The final movement is quick and I would bet all external. Boyfriend is satisfied and trots off toward home. Molly follows him about a foot behind with not so much as a turn of her head in the direction of her tail.

Spike sleeps a yard away in the shade.

I was sitting on the front porch, at home in Costa Rica, facing the big garden, an expansive mix of flowering tropical plants, palms and ferns, surrounded by a tall hibiscus hedge, and  overhung that day with a midmorning cloud streaked sky.

Two yellow-breasted birds circle and land on the electrical line over the front yard. After sitting together for a few moments, one flies off in a large sweep while the other remains perched in place.  Shortly, the first bird returns to his or her place on the wire with something in its mouth, and the two join their half-open beaks in what looks like a gentle kiss. A kiss, except there is the transfer of something from beak to beak – a bug? a crumb of leftovers from the garbage?

This sweep is repeated several times, the same one flying off and the other one waiting on the wire. When the feeder bird leaves to get more food, the other bird, the one being fed, flies out in a little circle, then lands again, stretches its head up high, and opens it’s beak like a funnel, reminiscent of baby birds in the nest. The waiting bird’s juvenile behavior continues until the first bird returns with its special delivery food service. After several rounds, the two fly off together, ending the somewhat bizarre display.

What was I watching? Perhaps a mother feeding her last hatchling? These two birds were matched in size and flight skills, so the baby bird theory is unlikely. Could this be courting behavior? If so, is it the female doing the feeding or the one being fed? Is this a teaching exercise, or a playful game, or maybe a doctor bird administering medicine? What?

I asked the uniformed attendant at the park station about this ambiguous behavior but she said she had never heard of it. And I have not seen it since.

My friend and I were talking outside when I noticed a spider web with a spider hanging in it.

I pointed out what looked like a crumb caught in the threads of the web directly below the spider.

As we watched, the spider started moving toward the nibble until it was right next to it.

She opened a little mouth-like part and drew in the crumb.

“Wow!” I said, “I’ve never seen a spider actually eat something. This is a first.”

After a pause, my friend said, “Thank you for bringing me into the present moment.”

Oh, so that’s what that means.

2009

I was chopping the tall grasses and finding my mind wandering to blame. After several times of stopping that mental transaction, I remembered the Be Here Now injunction. I started to make a silent chant with each movement:

I am the blade that cuts the grass

I am the rock that chips the blade

I am the grass that’s gone to seed

I am the seed that’s already spread

I am the ground that takes the seed

I am the chopper who chops the grass

I am the grass that takes the blade…

The chant worked really well in that it was directed specifically at each of my movements. I also started talking to the grass and encouraging it to allow itself to be pulled up by its roots. Each time the roots came along with the stems, I said ‘Jai Ma! Good Grass!’ That worked well, too, because the grass and I were engaged with pulling and collaborating on the outcome.

Near the end, I thought to myself, this is why the field workers used to sing as they chopped cotton. The chant creates rhythm that puts everything in synch, and gives the mind something to do that’s positive.

2009