Blessing #18: A Painted Bunting

Last week, while reading on the deck in my friend Diane's backyard, I heard a loud flapping of wings. There was something about it that sounded cumbersome and unusual, so I looked up and tried to find the bird.

And there it was--some type of heron, I thought, large and completely out of place in a backyard in Georgetown, Texas.

Soon another flapped by with its impossibly large wings and landed on a tree nearby. Crazy.

When we got to our sewing class in Austin, we were talking about all kinds of things and somehow the birds came up.

"Oh, those are Yellow Crowned Night Herons," Kari said. "They hang around Austin in wet springs."

With the mystery solved (and oohed and ahhed over), we moved on to discussing other birds, favorites we'd seen--or not. The painted bunting was everyone's favorite. I'd only seen one once in person--in passing when driving in a rural area just beside a nearby lake. But what a sight it was.

And then ... my very own painted bunting appeared, as if by magic, the next afternoon. I tried to get photos of it the first day, but it flew too fast for me. I was more stealthy the next day, but the glare from the sun and the window made photographing difficult.

Still. A painted bunting. In the feeder on my patio. Every day this week.

With a good mix of house finches, Carolina Chickadees, cardinals, titmice, and wrens to boot. And even a raccoon and a squirrel to keep everyone on their toes. And a sudden, massive swarm of gnats.

Diversity in action.

Sunrise (facing west)

Sunrise
Photo Friday challenge for the week.
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This photo shows what I woke up to this morning--out my northwest-facing back patio.

Rolling mist over the river. A western sky reflecting the brilliant orange of the east. Bare Soapberry branches framing the view.

Tiny Carolina chickadees skittered away to a near-by branch as I opened the back door and awkwardly hauled out the tripod. Several Cardinals nervously hopped from branch to branch in the cedar tree, carefully watching for when I might go back inside. Sparrows, always the bravest, had already hit the front feeder, and titmice would soon arrive to devour a hearty meal.

The cold morning air hit my cheeks with a blast, and I thought of how much I enjoy the cold at times.

The evening before, the meditation group I recently joined had met outside, in the peace garden behind a church near where I used to live. It was cold--and dark--with only a small lantern to light our way. We came bundled for the journey--like camping almost, our breath puffing before us, dogs barking in distant yards, a family walking with their cheerful young son.

We sat closer than usual, two to a bench, warmth radiating from shared blankets, common hopes, peaceful dreams.

Near the end of our 20-minute meditation, the church bells rang at 6 p.m., loudly and long. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Bong. Afterwards, I asked those in the group who've been meditating for decades if the bells disturbed them.

"Oh yes," they said. "But you just tell yourself, 'The bells have disturbed me,' and then go back to your meditation."

I'm not there yet.

But I'm trying.

Like the mist rolling over the river.

And the northwestern sky reflecting the morning sun.

Travel

Travel
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Where are they going, these birds that roost among us each fall?

Where have they been that busy streets, crowded traffic lights, and trees in parking lots seem a reasonable place to call home?

What do we look like to them, traveling slowly in our protective sheaths of steel and glass, faces raised toward their chatter, shooing them off as we reach our own destinations? How small we must seem from their perches far above. How inconsequential.

No different than the sidewalk. Except that we move about, while the concrete remains static beneath their claws.

An annoyance. Just part of the landscape. Something to pass by as they travel through town.

On their way to who knows where.

Or why.

My First Time

Autumn Mist
18 by 24"
acrylic and paper on canvas

It's never too late for art school (which I never attended), right? I kept wishing, while working on this new collage, that I knew more about painting, design, how to achieve various effects, and, well, just how to ....

Techniques. Tricks. Better ideas.

I look in art books and magazines. Study others' paintings and collages. But there's nothing like an on-location guide to say, "Here, let me show you how to do that." Or "Why not try it this way?"

I guess I'll just have to rely on experience. This is my first large collage, but it won't be my last. I see my mistakes--some I even have ideas about how to correct next time. Others ... well ... it'll be trial and error, I guess.

Learning to think--and see--and do--large.

A whole new vantage point.


P.S. The snippet in the collage is from the poem "The Sensitive Plant," by Shelley:

Swift summer into the autumn flowed,
And frost in the midst of the morning rode.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley