My love of Mother Nature is one of the most important loves in my life. It sustains me when I am sad. Speaks to my soul when I least expect it. And is one of my main connections with my Higher Power. My intuition. The Universe. God. Over the years I have surrounded myself with ways to heighten my connection with my Earth Mother by being more present, more observant, and creating a tiny paradise out of my yard that is inviting and comfortable and safe for the creatures with whom I share it.

Just last week we discovered a baby bird while Doug was mowing the lawn. I was in the house when I heard Doug calling my name and when I got outside he was standing there looking down. On the ground, at his feet, and just inches from certain death at the hands of the lawnmower sat a noisy, insistent, baby bird. I looked around for a nest, for his mama, and found nothing. My instinct was to save him. So I reached down and the little guy ran as fast as his little legs would take him, flapping his little wings in an effort to fly. I laughed and finally was able to scoop him up and cradle him in the palm of my hand. After a minute or so he stopped struggling and settled down. He was soothed by my voice and snuggled in. All I could think of was Dr. Seuss and I wondered if my new friend was thinking, “Are You My Mother?” He was clearly hungry and I had no idea what to give him. My intuition moved me to get a fresh strawberry, mash it up, and offer it to him. He gobbled it down as best he could, clearly loving it. I was in awe of this little miracle. I watched him and tried to picture what he might look like as an adult and again, my intuition kicked in and whispered, Baltimore Oriole. Sure enough, after checking with Google, I found a picture that looked just like him. Still, I had no idea how to care for him. So I called my friend Joan, a wildlife rehabber, and she came and took him to her house to care for him. He is doing very well and will soon be able to be released. This little guy brought such joy to my heart. My connection with Mother Nature personified.

All around me I find these kinds of reminders of my connection with the Universe. Saturday, I was driving home from food shopping and as I came around a corner I caught a glimpse of a young doe standing on the side of the road at the edge of a woods. I slowed down to watch her. She looked at me. Blinked. And with two graceful bounds, disappeared back into the woods. I wondered if she had a fawn waiting there.

This morning, I stepped out on my front stoop and breathed in the cool, moist air. The sun was up, promising a gorgeous day to come. As I sent up a silent prayer for such a stunning morning I heard a loud humming noise. Suddenly, right in front of my face, a ruby-throated hummingbird stopped and offered me the gift of his breathtaking beauty before flying over to the feeder set up in the garden just two feet from the stoop. He drank from the feeder for not more than 20 seconds, but it felt like another miracle from my Earth Mother.

From the time I was little, a love of the Earth and its creatures has been an integral part of who I am. Even though there have been times when I was pre-occupied with other things, I have always known the importance of getting back into the woods, or walking along the ocean, even weeding my garden as a means to soothe my soul and connect with the essence of life. I thank my parents for sharing their love of the earth with me and pray that my kids feel the same. Thank you God for another beautiful day.

I grew up in a very closely-knit neighborhood in small town America. All the kids played together, no matter what the age. We looked after each other. Kept watch over the littler ones. Climbed the big old pine trees, right up to the very top, where we could see for miles. Played tag and hide-and-go-seek. Had neighborhood baseball games. Played marbles and jacks. Ran through the woods. Had picnics in those same woods. Played outside all day long. Went home for dinner, then headed back outside until the street lights came on.

Everybody felt like family. And, like any family, we had our disagreements, our little fights. But nobody took them seriously. There was no drama. No knives or weapons or beat-downs. We’d run home, sometimes in tears, sometimes angry. Sleep on it. And go right back to playing the next day as if nothing had ever happened. All being forgiven.

As we got older, we kept each others’ secrets. Who had tried a cigarette. Who had ventured beyond the acceptable limits of the neighborhood and snuck down to the pond and stream down the street. Who had played spin-the-bottle for their first kiss. Nothing too serious and nothing too dangerous. We had all the innocence of the time to keep us safe and secure. It was pretty idyllic.

I know now that our parents had a lot to do with this. They were all pretty consistent with what we could and could not do in each others’ yards. They set limits and we listened. They had rules and we followed them. We listened to and respected each others’ parents as if they were our own. It was just the way things were in those days.

Over the years, some of the families ended up moving away. In fact there are only a few of the original families still in the old neighborhood. The elders are all in their early nineties and had been doing pretty well. Until this spring. This spring we lost two of them. It’s like losing a part of your heart. Part of your childhood. With each passing I’ve come to realize how precious time is. I look at my mother and father and think…they are amazing. They look fabulous….but I know, time will soon be catching up with them as well. As long as the others were still on this earth I could imagine that none of them would ever leave. I could imagine that they would live forever, keeping my sweet childhood memories, and thus, my heart, intact.

I know the time will come when it will be me and my siblings facing the loss. And, at this point, it will be sooner rather than later. That’s just the realty of life. I can feel the sadness well up inside when thinking about how our friends have to grieve, feeling a keen sense that it is more than just sadness for their loss. I am feeling my loss before it has even happened. Wondering how will I ever make it through a day without the familiar sound of my mother’s musical voice when she answers the phone. What will I do when I cannot talk to my father with his twinkling Irish eyes? How can life possibly go on?

At the same time, I know it will. And I know I will be OK. Because if I am not OK, they will kick my ass. From wherever they are. Heaven. Another dimension of life. It won’t matter. They will kick my ass. Trust me.

One of the reasons I so love living where I live is that I am so close to the Cape Cod Canal. I love that body of water. You can’t swim in it, but if you are lucky enough to have a boat you can trail along the calm water from Buzzards Bay to Sandwich and enjoy the beauty from the deck. I am not so lucky as to have a boat but I really don’t mind. I am content to walk along the paved service road and get my fix.

My love affair with the canal started about 25 years ago. We used to camp at Bourne Scenic Park and spent hours walking through the park and down to the water. With a cooler and a couple of chairs we’d spend the day people watching, boat watching, napping and leaving the world behind. Once the kids came we’d take them down to the base of the Bourne Bridge at low tide and look for sea creatures like stoic starfish and scuttling crabs. We’d collect rocks and fill the sand bucket with our treasures. The living creatures we always put back but the rocks and stones became part of our family history.

As the kids got older we’d bike from one end of the canal to the other. They would bring their friends to camp with us. Campfires, s’mores, rummy, word games, chess, scrabble – our days and evenings were spent in a contented, albeit noisy and boisterous, haze. Nobody looked at the clock. Trips to the camp store were frequent culminating in a last walk down to get ice cream after supper. Bedtimes were random. Breakfast was sumptuous. It was truly heaven.

Nowadays the kids have grown. We’ve sold the camper. But I still find the canal to be a place of solace and joy. It can be cool and windy, sometimes it’s downright raw, but it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter what season it is. This past winter I witnessed a rare sight when the canal was covered with ice floes. I had to get some pictures of that. It doesn’t happen all that often. Some mornings the fog is so thick you can’t even see the water. Some mornings it is so crystal clear that the sunlight dancing off the diamond-tipped waves is so brilliant you have to look away for a minute. In any case there are not many places I’d rather be.

One morning this spring I was taking a walk along the canal. The fog was a living thing blanketing the water in vaporous mists and the sky looked like rain. The bridges were as ghosts swirling in these mists. One moment there they were, the next simply vanished. The swoosh of ducks landing in the water made an eerie sound as you couldn’t see them in the fog. Although the campground was not yet open the scent of wood smoke from last fall lingers, a promise for the coming season. I walked a couple of miles that morning, breathing in the sweet salt air, the elixir of life. I watched the water almost stop moving as the tide began to turn. Watched a great blue heron, prehistoric in its beauty and form, stalk its breakfast with quiet determination. It was cool and I pulled my sweatshirt closer and began to walk a little faster. The air had changed. And just as I got to my car it began to rain. All I could do was smile.

There is something about collecting things that tugs at my soul. Books. Music. Rocks. Shells. Crystals. Broken hearts. Stray animals. You name it and I have, or have had at some point in my life, a collection.Throughout my home there are clear glass jars in all sizes and shapes filled with seashells and sea glass. I have books and CD’s on shelves, in bookcases, on the mantle of my fireplace. I have containers of sand dollars that date back 12 years or more, waiting for me to use them for a creative project of some kind or another. There are rocks, some smooth, some heart-shaped, some rough, but all caught at my heartstrings for some reason or another.  I have the shadows of broken hearts, some my own, some of people I love, stored safely in compartments in my soul. I started collecting crystals when I was in my twenties and have them displayed in glass pudding cups and ceramic ash trays and clear glass candy dishes on my windowsills and bedside table and anywhere else I can find  a spot where they will fit.

If my mom would have allowed it I would have had a collection of wild animals in my room. As a kid I was so desperate for a pet of my own that I would bring home leopard frogs and salamanders and toads, begging to be allowed to keep them. With a kind and gentle “no” my mom would make me return these creatures to the wild. She seemed to understand my need for something to take care of, but there were just too many kids and not enough room for pets in our house. So she never yelled at me or made me feel bad about wanting to keep my wild friends. She would just say “no” and that was that.

As soon as I could, after moving out on my own, I got a dog. But one dog was not enough. I got a female Bassett hound, knowing I was going to breed her and have litters of puppies. Collections of puppies. And deep down, I knew I would keep some of these puppies. And I did. When all was said and done, I kept two puppies from each litter and then bought a male Bassett hound to continue breeding. In the end, I had to give them all away.

Over the past few years I have become a collector of strays. Cats, in particular. We seem to live in an area where cats are dropped off and somehow, they seem to find their way into my yard. I have taken in four stray cats so far. Only one is still with us. A crippled, gray tiger who took quite a while to warm up to us, but is now the queen of the house. Beating up the dog, a rescue of course, then nuzzling up for affection, she is fickle but loves us.

I am not sure what it is that drives me to keep things as I do. I don’t believe I am compulsive about it. I don’t have my collections cataloged or set up in any particular order around the house. You don’t have to walk over or around my collections so I am not a hoarder. But when you walk into my house you know. You feel me. You can see my personality. The things I value. The things in which I find beauty. The things that bring me joy. I guess these things are just the outward expression of me. My life. My heart. My soul. And I am OK with that.