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Raising Our Voices
The Pacific Northwest is a part of North America where the
seasons are
more subtle than other regions experience. We go from frozen to
thawed
to frozen to thawed all in the course of a few weeks as winter
transitions to spring. Right now we have day time temperatures
rising
to the 60s but freezing at night with thick frost in the
mornings.
This must be tough on the plants and animals that are trying to
decide
just which way the seasons are going. I know that my daffodil and
tulip
bulbs pushed their stems hurriedly from the ground a few weeks
ago
during a warm spell, but then as we fell back to colder days,
they stood
still, not gaining any height, probably reconsidering their hasty
growth
as they were nipped by frost. Our Haflingers started blowing coat
too,
but then needed it badly over the last few nights, probably
wishing I'd
glue those clumps of hair back on their bodies rather than piling
it
outside for the birds to grab for nesting material.
A long awaited yet familiar sound greeted me last week as I
headed to
the barn to do chores on a particularly balmy evening. The echo
song
of the Pacific Chorus Frogs filled the air, rising from the woods
and
wetlands that surround our farm. I stood still for a moment to
soak up
that first song that heralds spring--a certainty that the muddy
marshes
were thawed enough to invite the frogs out of their sleep and
start
their courting rituals. Winter cannot return anytime soon with
any
seriousness now. A frog's version of Handel's Messiah in the
swamp--Hallelujah!
In the early mornings when I go to do chores I'm hearing bird
song that
has been absent for months. It used to be the only sound from the
air
were the Canadian geese and trumpeter swans honking as they'd fly
over
head, and occasionally a flock of seagulls flying inland for the
day to
feed in the old cornfields. Now there is an orchestra of songs
from all
around--Bach fugues in birdsong.
I know all the behaviorist theories about frog chorus and bird
song
being all about territoriality --the "I'm here and you're
not" view of
the animal kingdom's staking their claims. Knowing that theory
somehow
distorts the cheer I feel when I hear these songs. I want the
frogs and
birds to be singing out of the sheer joy of living and instead
they are
singing to defend their piece of earth.
Then I remember, that's not so different from people. Our voices
tend
to be loudest when we are insistently territorial: our point of
view
above all others. I'm not sure anyone enjoys that cacophony in
the same
way I enjoy listening to the chorus of frogs at night or birdsong
in the
morning.
People are most harmonic when we choose to listen. Instead of
sounding
off, we should soak up. Instead of shouting "stay away--this
is mine~",
we should sit expectant and grateful.
Perhaps that is why the most beloved human choruses are derived
from
prayers and praise. Singing out in joy rather than in warning
others away.
I'll try to remember this when I get into my
"territorial" mode. I don't bring
joy to the listener nor to myself. When it comes right down to
it, all that
noise I make is nothing more than croaking in a smelly mucky
swamp.
I hope we can all raise our voices above the mud, with clarity
and
hope. Then we'll truly celebrate that new life has begun.
Emily from BriarCroft
http://www.briarcroft.com/emily.htm
March 2, 2004