The Nest in the Stream

by Michael Kearney MD

  I restarted the car and continued to follow the wolf. Then, suddenly, he turned, crossed over a small, wooden footbridge to his left, and disappeared into the pines. I pulled my car into the curb and turned off the engine. I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes. I was stunned. I was wide awake.

  That night, I felt so excited that I had trouble getting to sleep. I don’t remember what I dreamt about but I do remember waking up with the desire to recall every detail of my meeting with the wolf. I had a feeling in my chest that was hard to define. It felt like a mix of hunger-pain and homesickness. As I lay on my bed thinking about what had happened, I realized that what I was feeling was a longing to be close to the wolf. I wanted to see him again. I wanted to cross the road to be with him.

  Since then, from time to time, I flash back to the meeting with the wolf. I see his face, his partially open mouth, his hint of a smile, his utter self-possession, and the liquidity of his movements—so that he is not so much walking, or running, as flowing. I see the blackness of the road, its miles of asphalt, and the unfathomable distance between us. And more and more frequently now I see that little bridge that led from the road to the firs and the new snow on the brown grass beyond. I see him crossing over, and disappearing behind the firs. I see the empty bridge now, standing there. And I am standing there too, filled with longing.

  What, I have asked myself, over and over since then, is this yearning for? At the time it felt like a desire to be close to the wolf, to be with him where he was. But what did that mean? I have not found an answer to this, but I have come to a place where it’s alright to let the yearning be, even if I do not understand it. I have come to see it as an unexpected gift: as something that was sleeping in me that has wakened.

  As I have learned to live with this yearning, I have noticed that it’s tidal; it comes and goes in the pull of some deeper gravity. I see how it floods when I have been away from the land for too long, when I have been too much “in my head,” too much in technology and information, too much in the city. I see how it ebbs at other times, such as when I look up into a night sky full of stars, or work in our yard, or when I stand outside at the start of the day with my eyes closed, and feel the morning’s coolness on my face. I have come to understand that this yearning is not something I can satiate as I do my thirst. Rather, I notice that something paradoxical happens here. The more I drink this drink the greater my thirst; the greater my yearning. Could it be that the yearning is itself the connection I am yearning for?

  THIRD

  THE LAND

  During the ten years I lived in my last home, from 2002 to 2012, I walked on the neighboring lands every day with our dogs in the morning and in the evening. I had read how a source of inspiration for Mary Oliver’s poetry was her routine of walking the land near her home in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, day after day, year after year.1 This encouraged me to approach the land and its inhabitants with attention and respect, and a willingness to be surprised.

  Outside our gate was a perfectly manicured soccer field and to the south of this an area that had been left largely to itself. Its periphery was lined with live oaks; there was a central, open area of brush, to the east side of which was a cluster of non-native but nonetheless magnificent eucalyptus, where, one year, a pair of red-tailed hawks nested. At night, great horned owls and barn owls hunted there and in the morning we met coyotes on more than one occasion. A dirt road skirted all this, which is where we walked, the dogs and I, occasionally joined by Radhule, or by my young stepson, Ben, in what became an everyday practice. I began to keep a journal of some of my encounters on these daily walkabouts. Here are some extracts from the cycle of a year’s turning on the land.

  January

  Out with dogs, on this misty morning. Milena with her smile and her one white, one blue Aussie eyes, and little Schnucks, with his shih tzu swagger and his floppy fringe. Such gladness coming onto this land. Seeing a black phoebe on a rock. Seeing mallards in the pond. And then a wave of house finches and their song. I pause, close my eyes, and open myself to the birdsong. I realize that in some ways John Moriarty’s instruction to “Let nature happen to you”2 is too big; too general. The instruction should be more specific. So, choose a particular aspect of the landscape that interests you, such as the song of the house finches, bring all your attention to that, and then, let the finches’ song happen to you. Open your ears and your chest wide and let finchsong happen to you. Close your eyes, bring all your attention to the sensations of your face, and let the cool morning mist happen to you.

  February

  Walking on the land after the first rains in months. Everything washed, and fresh, and shining. Everything around me, everything on this land, comes into being through allowing. Being through allowing. Is-ness through allowing. Am-ness through allowing. Where sun meets leaf, being through allowing. Where rain meets earth, being through allowing. The unconditional surrender at the heart of it all. I stand before an oak and follow the flow of its trunk up into its highest branches. Words come: “I drink through my roots and am free.”

  March

  A morning of birds. When walking with the dogs, I find a feather on the ground, small, mostly black, with a white band along the length of one side. I think it’s black phoebe’s feather. These days, on my runs, I meet him by his nest, where the overflow drain pool is below the soccer field. Later, as I arrive back at the house, I stop because right in front of my face is a little Allen’s hummingbird. She must have been visiting the blossoms on the hedge at the side of the house. I pause, and at that moment, my body jumps, as this huge crow comes cawing in alarm with its wings flayed in a swoop, being chased by an angry mockingbird. Chase—flash—“CAW!”—swoop—flail—“CAASHHHH!” I stand there, wide awake now.

  April

  Out walking with the dogs this misty morning. Standing in front of the great eucalyptus trees in the mist, in their great silence, in their great abiding. Just being in their presence, seeing them, feeling their silence in my body, standing under them where all the little succulents are laid out and noticing the earth is wet and hearing the drops of moisture falling. This microclimate they are creating, these great-grandfathers, and these little ones. In their presence, something in me begins to flow. It’s like walking among Buddhas. They are flow. Being in their presence, something in me begins to thaw, to soften, to liquefy, and, almost, to break into flame.

  May

  I look up at a flock of crows surfing on some currents of air and I think how birds are so aligned with the flow, as dolphins are with water.

  Air is flow

  Water is flow

  Fire is flow.

  And earth…earth looks so solid but that’s the grand illusion: our misconception is not to recognize that the Earth too is flow—just very, very, very slow flow.

  June

  As I step out of the gate in the morning, the sun is shining on the grass and on my heart, and the air is full of birds and birdsong….It occurs to me that there is so much that we don’t have to do. We don’t have to make the sun shine. That’s what the sun does. We don’t have to make the birds sing. That’s what they do. It’s not all up to us. And yet, when we notice, when we pay attention, our participation makes a difference. Some mysterious alchemy happens when we bring our careful attention to what is.

  July

  Just now, out with the dogs, I pause by the corner in front of a brown swoop of grass still with some morning mist on it and low-rising sunlight catching it ever so lightly. As I stand there watching and waiting for Schnucks to catch up with us, I am able for a minute to appreciate the lightness of the light; how lightly the light touches the Earth. In this early morning, it’s newborn. It makes me aware of a corresponding lightness in my heart that I have carried with me from my earlier meditation.

  Later I am walking by the black phoebe’s nest and watching out for snails on the ground. I see a clump of three of them together
and another a little way apart, and I move to avoid them in my big boots. The dogs just walk straight through, either avoiding or touching them so lightly that the snails just carry on regardless. I realize that the dogs are walking lightly on the Earth without forethought, whereas I have to keep my eyes open and remain alert and attentive. Continually staying awake is a big part of what it takes for us humans to walk lightly on the Earth.

  August

  Coming out here this evening with the dogs, I notice that my heart is full of pain. I’ve just come home from a family meeting with a mother and her daughter. The mother had a massive stroke that left her paralyzed on her right side and unable to swallow. She’s had a temporary feeding tube in for a couple of weeks now, but there has been no improvement and she’s been told there’s little chance of recovery. She just wants it all to end. She says she’s had enough. She’s ready. But her daughter is not. She’s pregnant with her first child who is due in three-months’ time. She wants her mother to accept a gastric feeding tube so she’ll live long enough to see her grandchild. They’re very close. They were both in tears as I sat with them.

  I take off my shoes and begin to walk across the field. I look up and see a full moon rising through the eucalyptus. I stop to take a photo with my phone. As I do, a red-tailed hawk peels off the branches with a rolling screech and drops across the moon. I feel the coolness of the new cut grass with the soles of my feet.

  September

  As I am out with the dogs this evening, I notice an empty plastic water bottle on the ground. I go in under the branches of the oaks and pick it up. As I walk back across the field with it in my hand, I am thinking: The land is so creative, and so powerful, and so capable in so many ways and yet here is one thing that she cannot do; she cannot pick up a plastic bottle off the ground. But then I suddenly understand something. That yes she can! I am her capacity to do this. I am the land on two legs with the capacity to choose and to act.

  October

  When I come to the corner by the big oak this morning, there are two rabbits sitting in the sun. It seems to me that after night, after twelve hours of darkness, the homeostasis of the wild comes back again. The words of a haiku well up in my mind:

  After night,

  The wild is back again

  Like some great silent tide.

  November

  Coming out to the garden just now with the dogs, I notice movement on the ground to the left by the gate. It’s a Bewick’s wren feeding. In the past month, I have been seeing her more often. She has been here all these years but it’s only now she’s allowing me to see her. Watching her hopping and pecking her way toward me through the leaves with her banded tail perked up reminds me of the robin at Colman’s Well. I show my respect by stepping out of her way.

  I love this land that has, in some way, let me in. As I’ve walked here every day, I have got to know the black phoebe, and the juncos and the towhees, and the redtails, and the eucalyptus, and the great rock, and the crows, and the hummingbirds. It seems to me that the more familiar I’ve become with the beings that live here, the more I’ve been graced by their coming toward me. I know that I too belong here. I’m full of gratitude.

  December

  Waking up this morning, I realize that my “who-I-am-ness” is a co-arising of all the causes and conditions of this moment, including this land that I am living on and with. So, my “who-I-am-ness” is an open living system of presence that includes this place. In a sense, I am this place. And not just any place. I am this particular place with the sun coming through the mist before us as we walk through the gate, knowing that we will be leaving here soon, and stepping onto the dew-drenched grass. Breath and body, feeling and place, co-arising together.

  The ritual of walking the land in this way every day was about becoming familiar with place. In his book What the Robin Knows, Jon Young shares the following San teaching from Africa:

  If one day I see a small bird and recognize it, a thin thread will form between me and that bird. If I just see it but don’t really recognize it, there is no thin thread. If I go out tomorrow and see and really recognize that same individual small bird again, the thread will thicken and strengthen just a little. Every time I see and recognize that bird, the thread strengthens. Eventually it will grow into a string, then a cord, and finally a rope….We make ropes with all aspects of the creation in this way.3

  It was not just about noticing the birds; it was about noticing individual birds, for example, not just any black phoebe but that particular black phoebe who is always on his own, who nests by the drain pool; and individual trees, like the oak that stands by the corner with the children’s swing on one of its branches; and particular rocks, like that great sandstone grandfather whose rust and ochre yellows deepen as the sun sets. We make relationships with these individuals one at a time. Over time, I began to sense something else: that this place was becoming familiar with me. Wolf Wahpepah talks about how, when we walk out onto a landscape, we are “being regarded.” How we carry ourselves, what our attitude is to a particular place and those who live there, is not going unobserved. If our attitude is one of respect, we may detect signs that this has been noticed. I began to recognize such signs, or at least I think I did, and not in dramatic ways but in little ways that could very easily have been overlooked. For example, the black phoebe allowed me to come closer to him before flying off, and then he would do so in a relaxed loop to a nearby branch rather than flying away fast in a straight line. Not infrequently, as I walked beneath the oaks, or the eucalyptus, or barefoot on the field, a quickening, an opening, happened within my experiencing that reminded me of Mary Oliver’s description of coming into a sense of deep kinship with the land she walked daily:

  Eventually I began to appreciate—I don’t say this lightly—that the great black oaks knew me. I don’t mean they knew me as myself and not another—that kind of individualism was not in the air—but that they recognized and responded to my presence, and to my mood. They began to offer, or I began to feel them offer, their serene greeting. It was like a quick change of temperature, a warm and comfortable flush, faint yet palpable….4

  Jon Young talks about “invisibility” as one of the fruits of deep nature connection.5 By this he is not suggesting that we learn to disappear. By invisibility he means that we become so familiar to a particular landscape, we come to so deeply belong there, that we no longer stand out as different and are, therefore, no longer noticed. Toward the end of my time of living on and with this land, I believe I experienced some moments of invisibility.

  The encounter I talked about earlier with the Bewick’s wren may have been one such occasion. Another was what happened on my last morning in our previous home, when I had wandered out into our backyard, early, to say my goodbyes. There was a family of California quail there, which continued to feed as I stood watching. They were relaxed and feeding from the ground while gently companion-calling back and forth to one another. After a little while, a young female started moving in my direction, pecking as she came. She continued coming, closer and closer towards where I was standing, now just a foot or two away, as if she did not see me. Just as I was thinking, “Maybe I’ve become so at home in this yard that I’m not visible to her; maybe she is going to come right up to me.” she lifted her head and saw me. All at once she startled, gave an alarm call and flew off in a panic, almost crashing into the cabin at the side of the yard. I thought about this afterward and asked myself if indeed I had been “invisible,” or if this was just one very preoccupied adolescent grouse?

  FOURTH

  THE NEST IN THE STREAM

  Wolf and Lisa smudged us down with the smoke from a smoldering stem of dried white sage and gave each of us a glass of water and a pinch of tobacco to take with us. They instructed us to go silently out onto the land and to walk about looking for a place where we would like to spend some time. I made my way down to a creek a
mong the trees to the east. I found a spot that was secluded and accessible, and with some awkwardness, because of having no free hands to steady myself, descended the steep, dry, leaf-covered creek side to the water’s edge.

  At first I just stood there, looking at the rocks in the creek bed upstream and watching and listening as the water flowed around them. I was standing at a place where the stream broadens into a pool. Looking down, I noticed that the water at my feet was utterly still and clear, reflecting the blues and greens of what was overhead, but there was something else. There was something unusual, partially submerged in the water. Small branches, twigs in a swirl. It was a large bird’s nest. I instinctively looked up into the branches of the sycamore tree above me.

  When I found a spot where I could safely leave the tobacco and water, I walked to where there were some stepping stonelike rocks going across the creek. I was able to squat down on one of these and look back into the pool. I was directly downstream of the nest. As I looked more closely, I could see that it was perfectly intact. It could not have been in the water very long because there were still pieces of wool interwoven with the twigs. The weave of the nest appeared loose yet solid. There were spaces between some of the coils and I could tell the water was flowing through as fine threads of what looked like hair or grass were waving lazily at its lower edge.