In the last five weeks, I have gone every day but one to
watch for the Eastern Meadowlarks that are nesting on a section of the Yorktown
battlefield. While Meadowlarks are not endangered, their population has been
decreasing at an alarming rate. Because they are ground nesters, they are
vulnerable not only to other animals but also to the human appetite for
manicured green spaces. This year, however, rather than being mowed every few
weeks, the grasses on part of the battlefield have been allowed to grow up into
a meadow, thus accommodating the Meadowlarks’ breeding season. What I watch for
and report each day is the birds’ behavior, from which we can infer where they
are in their cycle—and hold off the mowing until the season’s offspring are
able to fend for themselves.
I have learned a great deal about Eastern Meadowlarks, not
only from reading books and visiting websites but also from making and
recording my own observations. But I have also learned a great deal from the Meadowlarks. They have taught
me the value of physical presence. They have confirmed the goodness of
watching, waiting, being patient. They have affirmed the merit of showing up, open
to the moment, fully present.
These are not new lessons. For years, teaching writing
classes, I have harped on the importance of showing up regularly at the blank
page, even when (perhaps especially when) you think you have nothing on your
mind, nothing to say. Likewise, for years I have heard people who give
instruction in contemplative prayer stress the same thing. The first step is always
to make oneself available, and to keep making oneself available day after day,
even if it seems that nothing comes of the effort.
I know these things. But I forget. How good it is to be
reminded that there will be a payoff.
That if I stay with the process and show up, a poem will emerge. Or that if I stay with the discipline of prayer, there will be an inner shift, and with it
perhaps some guidance, or healing, or peace.
I feel deeply grateful for my time with the Meadowlarks. As I continue to keep watch, sooner or later I
will notice that they are doing
something different from what they were doing the day before. Perhaps they are
gathering sticks for a nest. Perhaps they are carrying in food for the
hatchlings. Perhaps they are standing sentinel, calling the fledglings out of
the tall grasses and into a mown swath on the perimeter of the field to gather
seed on their own.
What about you? Where are you called to watch, to wait,
to listen? I pray that the Meadowlarks will thrive here on our now peaceful
battlefield. May you also thrive in those places and among those people where
you are called to live, to work, to be present.
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