Below is a piece my husband Andy Schmookler wrote two years ago and published on his website www.nonesoblind.org.  Who has not marveled at the synchronized patterns of flocks of birds in flight?–April Moore

     “Whose woods these are I think I know.”

     Actually, I don’t know. 

     According to the deed, these woods on the slope below our house belong to my husband and me.  But I certainly don’t feel I ‘own’ them.  Standing in the hard-edged holes my feet have made in the crusted snow, I marvel at the quiet that I can hear only when I stop walking.  I feel nothing at all akin to ownership.  Instead, I feel I am being allowed into a sacred space, one larger and more wondrous than anything I ‘own.’  That line from Robert Frost’s poem ”Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” rings soothingly, but it also reminds me how preposterous is the idea of owning these–or any–woods.

     After just a few moments of standing still in the snowy woods, the forest is filling me,  feeding me.  I take in the sky, the trees, and the snow all around me.  The sky is blue, barely.  Not a deep, bright New Mexico blue, but a pale, winter Virginia  blue. 

     The sun is shining for the first time in days.  In the morning sunshine, the tall, bare trees are stretching southward from their bases, extending along the surface of the snow in long, grey streaks.  A tangle of young, thin trees commingle on the snow to create an undifferentiated mat of grey.

     I crunch on down the hill to sit on a fallen tree, bare of snow.  And I make plenty of noise getting there!  With the snow on the ground for so long, through high winds and melting, walking has become an unpredictable affair.  One step may end on top of the snow, while the next may send my foot crashing through the crust, down seven or eight inches.  I lurch along, making my way unevenly.

     Sitting on the downed tree, I look around at the snow.  It’s dirty.  Although this forest is too far from the road to be blackened by soot or car exhaust, the snow here has lost its pristine, new-fallen look.  All about me the snow is dotted with tiny bits of debris–a dried whorl of pine needles here, crumbs of organic matter there.  I surmise that these bits have been blown here–tiny pieces of bark loosened from trees, wood dust from woodpeckers’ drilling, shreds of brittle pine cones, all thrown  up the snowy hill by howling winds from the west. 

     I notice another curious thing as I sit.  Here and there I see slender dents in the snow.  Each one, about an inch wide and a couple of inches deep, cradles a twig.  And each dent is shaped perfectly to match the twig it holds.  How could such small twigs have made these dents?  Surely they are much too light to have dented this crusty snow when they broke off from a tree above.  I am puzzled, especially since my own weight does not always dent the snow.   

     This question reminds me of another curious thing I have noticed in the days immediately following every major snowfall this winter.  An empty space soon appears around each tree trunk, so that every tree is standing in its own tiny ’clearing,’ devoid of snow.  At first I wondered if trees, living beings that they are, exuded warmth, even a slight warmth that might be enough to melt the snow with which it is in immediate contact.  But then I also noticed that even the stone statue of St. Francis is surrounded by his own little snowless ring.  Even if a tree exudes heat, a stone statue doesn’t.  What then?  I am still stumped. 

     As I sit pondering, I hear a pileated woodpecker calling from the south.  Its call grows louder as it approaches, and I wait for it eagerly.  Soon the bird flaps into view, and I ogle it until it disappears again, its call fading into the north.

     I sit smiling, so happy in these woods that are too wild and free for anyone to own.–April Moore  

the forest under a clear sky

trees casting their shadows on snow

bits of debris on snow

a tree in the middle of a snow ring

snow dented by a twig

     I hope you will click on the orangutan and the hound at the bottom of this posting.  You will be taken to a video that depicts a beautiful friendship.  Not a friendship we would readily imagine, between two people, or even between a human and a beloved pet.  This unlikely-seeming friendship unites an orangutan and a dog!  And it is fascinating to behold.  According to the video’s narrator, orangutans and dogs are not normally interested in each other.  But when Suryia the orangutan met Roscoe the hound dog, it was love at first sight.

     I am fascinated by friendships between animals of different species.  I have read numerous accounts of what seem to be genuine and loving relationships between mammals of very different species.  Are particular species naturally compatible with certain other species?  Or is there just something in the personalities of the two individual animals that draws them together?  Or is it loneliness, a separation from others of one’s kind that drives two very different types of mammals together for some needed companionship? 

     And I wonder how similar animal friendships are to human friendships.  Are animal friends like human friends in that there is a special spark each feels for the friend that just isn’t there with most others?  

     I have watched this video several times, and I am moved by the great joyfulness of the orangutan.  He seems made for pleasure.  His every move conveys happiness in being alive.  He rolls over and over in the grass;  he splashes with abandon in the pool;  he hugs his arms behind his head and throws himself backward onto the grass;  he grabs a railing above his head and swings himself around and around from it.  He hugs the dog close, and, I swear, appears to be smiling! 

     When I watch Suryia, I feel a kinship with him.  How alike we are, I think, we humans and the orangutans.  I too have felt all I see  him express.  I am thankful that he is so happy, that he has a cherished friend with whom to play and share his natural exuberance on a daily basis.  And these two friends are fortunate to be cared for by a human couple who obviously love them and treat them kindly.

     I may tend to anthropomorphize, to attribute human qualities to animals who don’t actually have such feelings.  But with our fellow primates, I feel sure that I am looking in a mirror.  These animals truly are our close relatives.  They love, and they exhibit a wide range of feelings we humans know very well.

     When I watch this video, and I look into the eyes of Suryia, this close relative of mine, I wish him well.  I want the best for him and his fellow orangutans, these endangered species who love life so much.  I want them to be able to live in the joy that seems to be their birthright. –April Moore

Please click below:

The orangutan and the hound

     Not only has this winter been the snowiest of the dozen I’ve experienced in Virginia; it is by far the ‘icicliest!’  In fact, I don’t think I have ever seen such giant, muscular-looking, sword-like icicles in my life! 

     Now, I grew up with icicles.  Icicles formed part of the backdrop of my winter play in Minneapolis.  In fact, when thirsty, we kids would just snap off an icicle from a low-hanging eave and suck in its coldness like a popsicle.

     But here in Virginia this winter, the icicles are huge–longer, wider,  more formidable than anything I can remember in the much snowier, much colder Midwest. 

     The icicles outside our kitchen window form almost a drapery, with many of them joined at the top in a wide mass that only separates into individual icicles seven or eight inches below the roof’s edge.   Outside another window, icicles are relatively thin from side to side, but they extend outward several inches, resembling vertical window blinds.  And some of the icicles don’t just head straight down.  They take a short, eastward detour at the tip, a shape I attribute to wind blowing from the west as drops of ‘icicle melt’ are clinging to the icicles’ tips.

     But what has most astounded me is the length of some of these icicles!  Some are–and I am not exaggerating–more than seven feet long!    

     So why, here in relatively mild Virginia, are the icicles so much more a hulking presence than anything I remember in the Midwest?   Shouldn’t southern icicles be, if anything, tamer than their northern cousins? 

     I have been pondering this question at I stare, fascinated, at the icicles obscuring more of our window space with each passing day.  I shared my wondering with my husband Andy, who came up with a hypothesis that seems like it might be the answer. 

     Here in Virginia, he reasons, the temperature rises to around freezing on many days, unlike in Minnesota ,where the temperature falls way below freezing and just stays there.  With Virginia’s warmer temperatures, the icicles drip a little bit on most days.  Then when the temperature drops, the water dripping from the tips refreezes into an icicle that is a little longer than before.  Those Minnesota icicles, however, don’t spend much time dripping because the temperature rarely reaches 32 degrees. 

     So if you like icicles, as I do, then a generally warmer place, like Virginia, is the place to be!

     I invite you to take a look at my icicle photos below, taken at my house in the last few days.–April Moore

     I am told we are at the epicenter of today’s giant Mid-Atlantic snowstorm.  That’s fine with me;  I love snow.  Snow is what makes the cold of winter worthwhile.

     Since I work from my house, staying home is not the treat for me that it is for teachers, students, retailers, and the many others around here who are forced to take today off.  But fortunately, even though I spend more time at home than most people, I usually love being here.  I frequently stare out the windows, looking beyond the icicles at the falling snow.  It feels cozy to know that the snow won’t be stopping anytime soon.  In fact, reports are that it will continue late into tomorrow evening.

     This has been a banner year for us snow lovers.  In the dozen winters we have spent here on our ridge in the Shenandoah Valley, this is the snowiest.  In the past, each snowfall has certainly been a sensory delight, punctuating long periods of mere cold.  But this year the snows have come in waves, mighty and frequent, each one covering the last, still on the ground. 

     I am reminded of my Minnesota childhood;  once the snow began falling in earnest,  that was the last anyone saw of the ground until spring.  And I can’t forget my son’s childhood.  Even though he is now 21 years old, I still listen attentively to the school closing announcements on the radio.  I perk up as the announcer approaches  the ‘esses,’ listening eagerly for ’Shenandoah County Schools.’   Hearing it gives me a little lift;  not hearing it is slightly disappointing.  

     I’m happy that the kids and teachers get the day off, and that the forest where I live is silent, as the snow falls and falls.  I don’t plan to go anywhere for awhile, at least not by car.  I’ll be skiing along the ridge or tromping in boots down into the snowy woods.

     And here are some photos I have taken in the last few days–around the house and down in the woods.–April Moore 

     This prayer for the planet and for us comes from the UN Environmental Sabbath Program.–April Moore

We join with the earth and with each other.

To bring new life to the land
To restore the waters
To refresh the air

We join with the earth and with each other.

To renew the forests
To care for the plants
To protect the creatures

We join with the earth and with each other.

To celebrate the seas
To rejoice in the sunlight
To sing the song of the stars

We join with the earth and with each other.

To recreate the human community
To promote justice and peace
To remember our children

We join with the earth and with each other.

We join together as many and diverse expressions
     of one loving mystery:  for the healing of the
     earth and the renewal of all life.

     I have been concerned for some time about milkweed.  This humble plant, the sole food source for monarch butterfly larvae, is in decline thanks to land clearing and pesticide use.  A reduction in available milkweed is one reason the beautiful monarch butterfly’s numbers have also diminished.  Since I learned about the threat to this once abundant North American plant, I have been ‘on the lookout’ for stands of milkweed.

     Near my home, by a road that runs along a ridge, is a hearty stand of milkweed.  I watch the plants change with the seasons, and I find them beautiful, even in winter.  The other day I took a walk to photograph them. 

     Leaning this way and that, the bare, grey stalks support no leaves this time of year, only spent seed pods.  Once plump and green, the pods are now dry, open husks.  They split wide open months ago, and offered up their seeds to the wind. 

     But the wind was capricious;  she ignored–or only lightly touched–many of the open pods.  Even now in January, some of the open pods are still waiting, neatly lined with long silken strands, each one tipped with a brown seed, like dozens of matches pressed together in a matchbox. 

     Other pods are a disheveled mess.  Some of their threads have been ripped out and blown away, while other threads, tousled by the wind, remain in their pod.  And some of the threads are now matted clumps, stuck for months now to the milkweed stalks.  Blown from their pods, these seeds never made it past the little stand of milkweeed.   

     And some pods have been scoured clean of silk and seed.  All that remains in their tawny interiors is what looks like a divider, a brittle, brownish strip separating one side of the pod’s interior from the other.

     The milkweed seems an example of nature in its extravagance.  For countless generations, some of its many seeds have been carried away, and some of those have resulted in new milkweed plants.  Yet every year many other seeds ‘never leave home,’ never reproduce.  

     I will be watching in the spring, as the next generation of the humble but pretty milkweed begins to grow and green.–April Moore  P.S.  Please take a look at my photos below.

     I am totally in love with birds. 

     I delight in watching them glide from the magnolia tree down to the edge of our window feeder, where they pluck out a seed and swoop back to the tree with it, to break it open on a branch.  I love observing the little beings flit about, as they make their hushed rustling sounds in the trees and shrubs.  And I savor their singing.  Late in the day, when all the birds have disappeared, I think of them, and I look forward to their return in the morning.

     But there are so many things I don’t know about birds.  So much of their lives is mysterious to me. 

     For example, how do birds know when food once again appears in the feeder, after it’s been empty for the better part of a day?  A few days ago, I filled the feeder after letting it remain empty much longer than usual.  As I placed the little, seed-filled tray back into its plastic frame, I looked around to see if I could spot any birds watching me.  No, not a titmouse, chickadee, junco, or nuthatch in sight.  So, I wondered, how long will it be until the birds discover that the feeder is back in business?    

     In less than 15 minutes, I began to hear the soft thuds of little feet landing on and grabbing the feeder’s edge.  Sure enough.  When I looked out, I saw that they were back, all the usual customers taking their turns at the feeder,  just as if there had never been a break in the action.

     How did they know, I wondered, that the food was back?  Were they watching me from unseen places, as I refilled the feeder?  Did one nearby bird notice the change and somehow spread the word?  Had the birds been waiting, knowing from experience, that the feeder would indeed be refilled?  And do I, as the filler of the feeder, mean anything to the birds?  I would like to think that they view me favorably as the source of easy food.  But I see no sign that they regard me any differently than any other approaching animal who might be dangerous.

     The birds at our feeder always knock off for the day earlier than I would expect.  While it makes sense that birds would settle into their roosts early in the evening, since they are–well–early birds, I am surprised to see that the feeder is completely abandoned by 3:30 or 4 pm.  Do they not need to spend the last couple of daylight hours eating?  What do they do with their late afternoons?  Do they ‘go to bed’ even before the sun sets?

     Speaking of ‘going to bed,’ where do birds sleep anyway?  I did a little reading on this question.  While my brief research told me very little about the roosting habits of particular species that frequent our immediate area, I did learn a few general facts.  The majority of bird species, including those that are not tree dwellers, prefer to roost in trees.  Some excavate a sleeping cavity in a tree, to which they return night after night.  Many species roost in groups.  I imagine that by nestling together, the birds keep one another warm.  And perhaps there’s strength in numbers.  Many sets of eyes may increase the chances of spotting an approaching predator. 

     Another bird mystery I contemplate is junco migration. This little charcoal-grey and white cutie migrates to Virginia for the winter from its home in Canada!  Apparently, our cold, sometimes snowy winters are just the respite from Canada’s frigid winters that these fellows like.  But I don’t understand.  If they head south every winter anyway, why not keep going until they encounter a place where the winters are actually warm?  Are they interested in being less cold, but not in being actually warm?

     I wonder a lot of things about my feathered friends.  But so far, they’re not telling me the answers.–April Moore

tufted titmouse, painting by Clarence Stewart, Originalbirdart.com

black capped chickadee--AP photo

dark eyed junco--photo by Terry Sohl

white breasted nuthatch--photo by Terry Sohl

     The piece below was written by my husband Andy Schmookler.  It has appeared in The Baltimore Sun and on Andy’s website www.NoneSoBlind.org. –April Moore

People often speak dismissively of the spiritual aspect of environmentalism. “Environmentalism is a religion,” they say, as if the ridiculousness of such an attitude were patently obvious. But they never look further to examine, let alone evaluate, what the environmental vision is and what is the moral/spiritual ethic behind this supposed religion.

A close and honest look would show there’s nothing ridiculous about it.

Environmentalism is about the relationship between humankind and the natural world—the natural world in which we are embedded and on which we depend for our very lives.

Environmentalism calls for that relationship to be one of care and harmony rather than reckless destruction.

Environmentalism sees in the living systems of the earth something worthy of respect and even reverence. Something sacred.

There’s nothing unusual about people having religious feelings about the natural order. Indeed, in the context of the many human cultures throughout the ages, what is strange is the failure to see anything sacred in nature.

As an ethic for honoring the sacred, environmentalism seems as legitimate as other religious ethics.

“Live in harmony with the earth,” as we are all too slowly beginning to learn, is ultimately as essential to Wholeness in the human system as “Love Thy Neighbor.” Indeed, it is a form of the same ethic.

“Give us this day our daily bread” is a request that will be granted only so long as we maintain our soils and waters and a stable climate with which to grow the staff of our lives.

Like the Biblical commandments, “Live in Harmony with Nature” entails a kind of obedience to an authority bigger, and more important, than our own desires.

With the environmental ethic, as with the Biblical commandments, there is also –in this obedience to commandment– an indissoluble element of self-interest: obey or else.

In the case of the Bible, one of the motivating factors behind obedience is to avoid God’s wrath. With environmentalism, the punishment for misbehavior is a form of “natural consequences.” It is simply a natural property of the system that if it goes down we go with it: a moral order not of wrath expressing itself from above but of karmic justice.

Destroy your home and you will be homeless.

But the environmental ethic –also like the Biblical teachings—is not just about self-denial or self-protection. It is also about love, and appreciation, and reverence. Only a person incapable of awe can go very far into knowledge of the mind-boggling complexities, the dynamic harmonies, of the living systems of the earth without being struck by their beauty and wholeness.

In both the environmental and Biblical ethics, some desires must be suppressed, some pleasures must be denied, because there are more important values at stake.

The spiritual dimensions of environmentalism are not necessarily alternatives to our civilization’s religious traditions, but can be a legitimate aspect of those traditional religions.

Many evangelical Christians recognize this: with the ethic of being Good Stewards of God’s creation, they honor the Creator of this marvelous natural order. (And Judaism, too, has its environmentally focused communities of belief, who see in the fostering of reverence for nature, and a harmonious relationship with it, a profound connection with traditional Jewish ethics.)

For those who see nature less in terms of the role of the Creator in fashioning the profound beauty of the natural world, but who focus instead on what science has shown about the development and workings of this amazing order, another mind-boggling and spiritually numinous vision can open up.

In contemplating the miracle of life’s rise on this planet over the past almost-four billion years, one can experience the sacred. Over this vast stretch of time, there has grown up on the surface of this planet an order of almost inconceivable intricacy– from the molecular level within the cell to the essential flows of matter and energy at the global scale. Overcoming planetary traumas that have occasionally assaulted the earth from outside the biosphere, the increasingly integrated systems of life have created a self-sustaining foundation supporting all earth’s creatures.

As with other religious visions, this understanding leads us to see ourselves in a larger context. This living order deserves our reverence for many reasons, not least because it is out of that order that we came into existence, and not least because we still depend on that order for every breath we take and every bite of food we eat.

That dependence engenders another reason –one besides awe and gratitude, one based in prudence—why we are called upon to give the living system of the earth deep respect. We are the creatures who NEED to be inspired by such reverence.

That’s because, of all the creatures this system has produced, we humans are the ones who have innovated and stumbled our way into a situation where we, as a species, now wield power sufficient to disrupt and destroy the biosphere’s life-sustaining wholeness.

Our beautiful earth now reels under our wanton exploitation: the species are going extinct, the reefs are dying, the fisheries disappearing, the climate undergoing changes too swift for life to adapt.

We need to transform ourselves from acting like weak creatures eking out survival any way we can, as we were when we emerged onto the scene, to conducting ourselves like the mighty creatures we have become and who –out of a sense of the sacred values at stake– align our powers with the needs and the structure of our planet’s natural order.

Thus it is at this point in human history –where our impact has become so great, but where we so clearly have developed collectively neither the wisdom nor the moral discipline to exert our powers in a harmonious and sustainable way—that the religious dimension of the environmental ethic becomes not only justified but essential.

Throughout history, it is when people contact that deep place where spiritual meanings come alive in their hearts that they find the motivational strength to overcome the destructive forces around them, and within themselves as well. It is from a rightly constituted sense of the sacred that people and cultures have been able to transform themselves.

In the face of this rapidly developing emergency, therefore, we need those passions of reverence and awe and love and loyalty, that the sacred inspires, to give us the strength of will and character to make a profound and life-serving change in ourselves and in how we act on our planet.

     May 2010 be a year of healing for humanity and the earth.  May we all fall in love with our extraordinary planet and help to heal it.  I invite you to start the new year by enjoying a selection of remarkable nature photos.  Just click on the link below.  And Happy New Year!–April Moore

http://www.scribd.com/doc/19357123/INSPIRING-NATURE-PHOTOS