This photo is my definition of motherhood; five goslings closely following mom (and dad), learning to eat and swim. And survive.
For me, that’s part of what makes a good mom; unconditional and protective love combined with teaching essential life skills.
In my case, I was often referred to as the “smother mother“, but it’s a label I wear with pride. I’m not a helicopter mom, but even better…I’m (still) a DRONE mom. I’m the same with the grandkids; laser-focused on them at all times.
Every seven years, my birthday falls on Mother’s Day. As my mom often said, I was the perfect Mother’s Day gift for her, and as my son tells me, I wouldn’t have anything to celebrate without HIM, so he’s the one who actually deserves the gifts and accolades. He’s a funny guy.
In my opinion, tomorrow’s the perfect enchanted day to double my joy and celebrate ME. .
Scrolling through the vast wasteland of the internet, I discovered this picture and it immediately brought tears to my eyes.
I could actually feel myself as the girl caressing this magnificent humpback whale.
The essential and enduring connection and communion with other creatures is a combination of compassion and empathy and kindness.
I did a little research and learned about the work of Rachel Byler, artist and creator of The Colorful Cat Studio.
🐋It’s on my May Birthday Wish List as I could gaze at this painting forever and ever. It brings a simple yet complex joy.🐋
One of my favorite poets, Pulitzer Prize winner Mary Oliver wrote about humpback whales:
HUMPBACKS
There is, all around us, this country of original fire
You know what I mean.
The sky, after all, stops at nothing, so something has to be holding our bodies in its rich and timeless stables or else we would fly away.
Off Stellwagon off the Cape, the humpbacks rise. Carrying their tonnage of barnacles and joy they leap through the water, they nuzzle back under it like children at play.
They sing, too. And not for any reason you can’t imagine.
Three of them rise to the surface near the bow of the boat, then dive deeply, their huge scarred flukes tipped to the air.
We wait, not knowing just where it will happen; suddenly they smash through the surface, someone begins shouting for joy and you realize it is yourself as they surge upward and you see for the first time how huge they are, as they breach, and dive, and breach again through the shining blue flowers of the split water and you see them for some unbelievable part of a moment against the sky- like nothing you’ve ever imagined- like the myth of the fifth morning galloping our of darkness, pouring heavenward, spinning; then
they crash back under those black silks and we all fall back together into that wet fire, you know what I mean
I know a captain who has seen them playing with seaweed, tossing the slippery lengths of it into the air.
I know a whale that will come to the boat whenever she can, and nudge it gently along the bow with her long flipper.
I know several lives worth living.
listen, whatever it is you try to do with your life, nothing will ever dazzle you like the dreams of your body,
its spirit longing to fly while the dead-weight bones
toss their dark mane and hurry back into the fields of glittering fire
where everything, even the great whale, throbs with song.
I share my world with coyotes, bobcats, raccoons, skunks, possums, lots of bunnies, even more rats, and an assortment of birds including scrub jays, mockingbirds, hummingbirds, hawks, egrets, and herons.
And owls.
Late at night I’m lucky to hear the hoots of a mating pair of Great Horned Owls in the tallest eucalyptus trees. It’s a soothing sound as I fall asleep, the hooting of owls in the distance.
Last night was different. I was awakened at 2:30 a.m. with the sound of that distinctive hoo-hoo-hoo only MUCH closer. Even through a closed window, it was LOUD, and so was the answering call.
This back and forth conversation didn’t stop for an hour and it was impossible to get back to sleep.
I learned that owls lay eggs in March, so maybe that’s what the chat was all about. My around the corner neighbor has an owl box, so that’s a logical thought.
Hopefully, they took turns hunting all the rats and mice around here, too.
Symbolically, hearing owls at night provides protective energy. The spiritual meaning of hearing an owl could be that it’s important to establish energetic boundaries.
Owls use their excellent hearing, keen eyesight, and silent wings to hunt and keep safe. So when our vision fails us in life, the owl’s call at night symbolizes protection and guidance. Hearing an owl at night can represent gaining a new direction in life.
Owls use their calls to claim their territory, to signal that there’s a predator nearby or to communicate with their partner.
The meaning of hearing two owls is related to spiritual enlightenment. An owl is the ultimate symbol of wisdom and maturity.
Two owls hooting is a sign that you’re in the middle of strong spiritual energies and you need to let them lead you into the changes your soul is going through.
It’s a reminder to open your heart and embrace the changes.
Higher forces have recognized it, so they’re sending you owls, as a dose of additional energy to move forward.
Owls are always carriers of important messages. If you’re wondering what it means to hear two owls late at night, the answer lies in the way you observe things around yourself.
Owls want you to change your perspective about recent events and try to discover why they really happened. There’s a hidden message behind it and you need to discover it.
If you hear an owl hooting near your house and wonder: “What does it mean when an owl hoots outside your house?”, the answer will cheer you up: an owl outside your house is considered to be a signal of good luck.
Owls are observed as highly spiritual animals and their hooting can only bring positive vibes to you.
Although different cultures have different interpretations of owl symbolism, almost every culture treats owls as a symbol of good luck and prosperity. joyceelliot.com
I’m tired today, but always find joy and gratitude in my wild friends.
It’s almost time for the March full moon and the night sky is clear and bright.
Kids really do listen to everything we say, that’s absolutely true.
One time I looked up as a crow flew by and said, “Hello, cousin!”
Angel Girl asked me why I said that, and I told her that crows are very smart and that I feel they’re like family to me.
The next time we saw crows fly by, she pointed and said, “There goes one of your cousins, Grandma!”
Mom asked her why she said that, and Angel Girl told her all the crows in the whole world are Grandma’s cousins, which is a great thing to her because she loves her own cousins.
The best part of the story is that it makes perfect sense to her that animals are family. I like that a lot.
Besides a murder of crows, there are other collective nouns for crows: a horde, a hover, a mob, a parcel, a parliament, and a storytelling.
As for a storytelling of crows? This is a bit of an unknown but crows do tend to gather in large flocks and are known for their loud ‘caw’. Perhaps someone observed this and decided that they weren’t so much plotting a murder but were telling stories to each other, https://www.birdspot.co.uk/
This photo from late yesterday afternoon must tell quite the story; I’ve never seen so many crows on the school field.
Seeing crows at sundown is a common occurrence around here, but not on this grand scale. Everyone driving by slowed down to gawk and neighbors came out to record it like I did.
On the roof, on the fence, on the fields — all my cousins!
Update: I sent the photo to my original Angel Boy and received a video text from his almost seven-year-old clone, AB 2.0 — “Hey Grandma, that’s a lot of cousins!”
Last night in the garden around 9pm, I heard this chorus of beautiful songdogs; my beloved coyote family. This lasted nearly a full minute, along with other shorter lyrical melodies.
Turn up the volume, as it was extremely LOUD! I wanted to run up the hill to join them, but I did that once and broke my wrist in the dark, so I merely sent them all my love.
I know what you’re thinking, but there are other reasons for this symphony besides a fresh meal…
“The sound of coyotes howling and yipping at night sometimes causes people concern and alarm. Some mistakenly believe howling indicates that a group of coyotes has made a kill. While coyotes howl for a variety of reasons, it is not likely because they have downed prey. Doing so would draw attention and might attract competing coyotes or other predators to their location, which is not something a hungry coyote would want to do. Coyotes howl and yip primarily to communicate with each other and establish territory. They may bark when they are defending a den or a kill.” https://wildlifehelp.org/solution/district-columbia/coyote/should-i-be-concerned-if-i-hear-coyotes-howling-yipping-or-barking/93
Even if you’re not from Southern California, there’s a good chance you’ve heard of P-22, a mountain lion that resided in Griffith Park in Los Angeles, on the eastern side of the Santa Monica Mountains.
Somehow he crossed freeways to settle in the rugged, chaparral-cloaked slopes of one of the largest municipal parks in the United States. He remained there since then, hunting mule deer and other animals for food in the natural areas of the park.
I think photo credit goes to NatGeo
P-22 was first identified in 2012 and was the subject of significant media attention, also as the subject of books, television programs, and works of art. He even had his own Facebook page, courtesy of savelacougars.org/
He wasn’t just a big cat. He was a symbol of resistance, resistance to the idea that LA has no wildlife, to development in his own backyard, to dwindling numbers of mountain lions in SoCal.
P22 had been living in Griffith Park for about ten years, but it’s as if he was actually trapped. He could never find a mate as no other mountain lion could reach the park without getting killed on the freeways.
What a confusing world he must’ve lived in with all these loud humans with their fast cars and concrete. For me, he served as a reminder (along with coyotes and bobcats) that we have always been the invaders. They were here first.
A mountain lion believed to be the famous P-22 allegedly attacked and injured a small dog in Silver Lake until he was scared off by the pet’s owner. After that, he was captured and sedated for medical testing to evaluate his condition.
So far, I haven’t found satisfactory answers to my questions about why he wasn’t previously relocated, moved to a sanctuary, or helped before he reached such a deplorable physical condition. It seems to me as if he was used as a test subject solely for the purpose that his movements and actions could be studied by humans.
Did anyone actually CARE about HIS quality of life?
However, when he was captured, according to the LA Times, the wildlife agencies said in a joint statement that they had “already been in contact with leading institutions for animal care and rehabilitation centers”.
Too little, too late.
In 2016 it was believed that he killed and ate a koala from the LA Zoo,
California mountain lions are a “specially protected species.” Killing a mountain lion without a depredation permit is a misdemeanor punishable by up to one year’s imprisonment in the county jail or a fine of up to $10,000.
P22 was the focus of research led by federal biologists trying to “better understand how mountain lions are surviving in increasingly urbanized and fragmented habitat,” said Kate Kuykendall, acting deputy superintendent of the Santa Monica Mountains National Recreational Area. (Curated from https://www.baltimoresun.com/la-me-mountain-lion-to-remain-20160316-story.html)
Officials wept when announcing the decision and shared images of a severe herniation of his abdominal organs. Multiple organs were shutting down and he had a parasitic infection. The poor old guy was in pain and suffering. At that point, there was really no other compassionate solution. Sadly, I agree.
Is there no end to human cruelty, the tendency to exploit other living creatures? How disgusting.
Rest in peace and freedom, you beautiful creature.
It’s the witching hour…the veil is thinning…it’s the time when all my nocturnal creatures visit Casa de Enchanted Seashells. PS Check out the exact time of this video, lol.
‘Tis the Witching Time of Night
by John Keats
‘Tis ” the witching time of night”, Orbed is the moon and bright, And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen — For what listen they? For a song and for a charm, See they glisten in alarm, And the moon is waxing warm To hear what I shall say. Moon! keep wide thy golden ears — Hearken, stars! and hearken, spheres! Hearken, thou eternal sky! I sing an infant’s lullaby, A pretty lullaby. Listen, listen, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, And hear my lullaby! Though the rushes that will make Its cradle still are in the lake; Though the linen then that will be Its swathe, is on the cotton tree; Though the woollen that will keep It warm is on the silly sheep — Listen, stars’ light, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, And hear my lullaby! Child, I see thee! Child, I’ve found thee Midst of the quiet all around thee! Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee! And thy mother sweet is nigh thee! Child, I know thee! Child no more, But a Poet evermore! See, see, the lyre, the lyre, In a flame of fire, Upon the little cradle’s top Flaring, flaring, flaring, Past the eyesight’s bearing. Awake it from its sleep, And see if it can keep Its eyes upon the blaze — Amaze, amaze! It stares, it stares, it stares, It dares what no one dares! It lifts its little hand into the flame Unharmed, and on the strings Paddles a little tune, and sings, With dumb endeavour sweetly — Bard art thou completely! Little child O’ th’ western wild, Bard art thou completely! Sweetly with dumb endeavour, A Poet now or never, Little child O’ the western wild, A Poet now or never!
I’m involved in a search, rescue, and release mission because a baby lizard somehow sneaked in the house.
Right now he’s lying low, evading my efforts to liberate him, lurking behind the sofa.
I’ve tried everything; this isn’t the first time it’s happened, but so far I’m not successful in this rescue and release.
And that means neither is that lizard because there’s nothing for him to eat here – no flies, worms, caterpillars, nada.
I’m only trying to help.
I cleaned behind the sofa and now there’s no dust, either.
WHERE ARE YOU, LIZARD?
A brief Google search let me know that lizards symbolize resurrection, rebirth, and regeneration. In Egyptian hieroglyphics, the symbol of the lizard was representative of plentiful abundance. A lizard in one’s house is often seen to represent an old friend or acquaintance, reminding you of their spirit.
The next morning…still no sign of this lizard, but I’m still looking. I haven’t given up yet.
Just after noon, I almost stepped on this little lizard as he was well camouflaged on a floral rug, but he made a wise choice to reveal his location. I grabbed a plastic container, pushed him in, and ran outside to set him free.
When it cooled off slightly in late afternoon, I went out to the garden to water plants because it’s been SO HOT and everything is parched. We haven’t had rain in a long, long time.
I heard chirpy calls that sounded a bit distressful. How could I tell? I like to think that I can communicate with animals–whether or not that’s true, it does make me listen to them, and I feel that I can distinguish one sound from another, sort of like when you know why your baby is crying, whether it’s hungry or tired or frustrated…
At that precise moment that I heard those chirps, I was walking on my stone pathway and I looked down. There, camouflaged on a rock, I spied a tiny bird. If I hadn’t paid attention, I would have stepped on him/her!
I ran back on the deck to grab my phone, and he had hopped up on an exposed tree root.
I began to have a chat with this darling creature who appeared to be lost and a bit scared. I can understand why, because he’s definitely NOT supposed to be sitting on a gray rock exposed to all sorts of danger.
I brought over a small pan of fresh water and watched him hop around a little and flex his wings, so I surmised he had fallen out of a nest and wasn’t actually injured.
Again I became aware of lots of birds circling the area, yellow chirpy finches calling out to this little guy, so I knew it was a Lesser Goldfinch fledgling, a common bird in Southern California and one I often am lucky enough to see around here.
From the tree root he hopped onto a hanging succulent and finally made it all the way into a basin shaped planter on top of the tree stump. With his family encouraging him to join them and fly to safety, I thought it was best to give them all space and went in the house.
Later, just before dark, I checked and he was gone. As soon as I woke up this morning, I checked again and there’s no sign of him.
Fingers crossed, I’m hopeful that this was another happy ending at Casa de Enchanted Seashells.
I discovered a lovely poem by Mary Oliver:
Goldfinches
In the fields we let them have- in the fields we don’t want yet-
where thistles rise out of the marshlands of spring, and spring open- each bud a settlement of riches-
a coin of reddish fire- the finches wait for midsummer, for the long days,
for the brass heat, for the seeds to begin to form in the hardening thistles, dazzling as the teeth of mice, but black,
filling the face of every flower. Then they drop from the sky. A buttery gold, they swing on the thistles, they gather
the silvery down, they carry it in their finchy beaks to the edges of the fields, to the trees,
as though their minds were on fire with the flower of one perfect idea- and there they build their nests and lay their pale-blue eggs,
every year, and every year the hatchlings wake in the swaying branches, in the silver baskets,
and love the world. Is it necessary to say any more? Have you heard them singing in the wind, above the final fields? Have you ever been so happy in your life?
Someone once told me I was a wolf in a former life and I wasn’t actually all that surprised. Even as a little girl in Detroit. somehow I always knew that wolves and coyotes were my spirit animals.
During my lifetime, I rescued a wolf hybrid, studied wolves in college, and worked with wolves at a wildlife refuge.
There’s nothing to compare with the feeling of deep intelligence when a wolf looks directly into your eyes. It’s transcendent.
Humans really really need to stop murdering sentient beings. Really. It breaks my heart.
Enchanted Seashells | Princess Rosebud 