December and January usher in the most brilliant constellation in the heavens: Orion the Great Hunter, AKA the Celestial Warrior. It is also low in the southeastern sky, so every person on Earth—northern or southern hemisphere—is able to gaze upon this most sparkling and recognizable constellation. Some people might argue that the Big Dipper is the most conspicuous constellation. Maybe so, but the Dipper doesn’t stop me in my tracks quite like Orion does when I step outside on a cold, clear winter's night and become dazzled every time I see it.
Most of the celestial constellations bring to mind quite different images in different cultures and different eras, but Orion has consistently been interpreted as a warrior boldly flashing his shield, if not some other similar mythical heroic figure. There is no constellation that has brighter stars than Orion. It contains two of the seven most luminous stars in the sky, and the heaven’s brightest star of all—Sirius—lies close by.
Orion was prominent in the minds of the ancients. The Egyptians considered it to be the incarnation of their great god of the afterworld, Osiris. In the Bible’s Book of Job, when God berates Job for his lack of humility, he says, “Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades or loose Orion’s belt?” (The Pleiades is another spectacular winter sight right next to Orion: an open cluster of young stars that is also known as the Seven Sisters.)
When observing Orion with the naked eye, one notes some 15-20 stars that outline the Great Hunter’s form. A detailed examination with a good backyard telescope will reveal over 200 stars—most of which are double and multiple suns. (Most stars we can see are not single bodies like our sun, but are double systems, and even multiple stars.)
The two brightest stars in Orion are Betelgeuse (BET-el-jews) and Rigel (RYE-jel). Betelgeuse is the largest star we can see with the naked eye. It’s a red giant and is one of the few stars one can look at and tell that it’s not really white, but an orangish-red. It is more than 600 times the size of our sun and some 10,000 times brighter. It could go supernova at any moment. When it does (keep an eye out!), it will be as bright as the full moon and even visible in the daytime. But it might also might not happen for another 1,000 years. Nearby Rigel is no dim bulb—being 50 times the size of our sun. Betelgeuse can be found in Orion’s shoulder and Rigel (meaning “foot of Orion”) at one of his feet.
Orion’s belt is the real eye catcher for me. It is made up of three identical brilliant blue stars, perfectly aligned and equally spaced. Some 1500 years ago the Arabs were the world’s premier astronomers and many of the heaven’s most notable stars carry Arab names. Orion’s belt Arabic names are Mintaka (“the belt”), Alnilam (“the belt of pearls”), and Alnitak (“the girdle”).
The most special sight of all in the Orion constellation is the “fuzzy star” in the middle of the sword that hangs from his belt. It’s not a star at all, but a gorgeous nebula; AKA the Great Nebula in Orion. It’s a massive cloud of gas and dust that is 20 times the size of our solar system. Denser portions of the cloud are in the process of collapsing and forming new stars—some just babies, a mere few million years old!
To the naked eye under a dark sky, the Orion nebula can be seen not as a point of light (like all stars), but a wee bit of a blurry blob. With a pair of binoculars the nebula appears as a tiny white cloud, but in time exposures from large telescopes, it shows its real colors: a swirl of red, blue, and violet.
I find it fascinating to come to know some of the specifics details and origins of Orion the Great Hunter and his star-birthing nebulous sword, but it’s not at all requisite to be cognizant of these facts, in order to gaze upon this constellation on a winter’s night and become captivated by its beauty. One needn’t know anything about Orion to be thrilled by this stellar sight.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
Soggy Spider—Part 2
In a few minutes my arachnid friend slowly began to move its pedipalpi. (Pedi-what? At the time I had no idea they were called this. I later consulted a bug book, to learn what they are and what their function is. Fact: pedipalpi are small, leg-like appendages to either side of the mouth of an arachnid, and are usually a fraction of the size of its eight legs. On a scorpion, however, the pedipalpi are longer than its legs, and a stinger is located the end of each pedipalpus. OK? On with the narrative.)
On the end of my spider's pedipalpi I saw tiny hands or pincer-like objects, and the spider began to use them to groom the adjacent leg. Was it wringing off the excess water? It first bent and then elevated a leg, as it continued to stroke downward on it.
Ever so slowly, it worked on the other legs and then began to move its whole body, as if gradually recovering the ability to do so again. I admired its body—a beautiful shade of gray. It was bulbously shaped and handsome. I watched its round bulk quiver and very subtly change shape and fill out, ever so slightly. Was it breathing? Was its stomach convulsing with all the water it had swallowed?
I sent my friend healing energy. I apologized for having the bucket of water there and for the near-drowning it had experienced. I reached out and touched its body, ever so gently, to soothe it. It recoiled a bit. OK, it didn't receive my touch as a caress, so I kept my hands to myself. I wanted to pick it up and bring it closer to my eyes, so I could see better what was going on, but resisted. I wondered why I held back. Was I respecting its space and deciding not to bring it up close to my nose and frighten it with my gigantic puss? Was I responding to archetypal fears that people have of arachnids? The possibility of getting bit did make me pause—even though I had no idea of how likely it was to strike out at me.
I sat there watching the spider from across a wide gulf of ignorance. I tried to open myself to its world and intuit what was going on and what was important to it. I once again apologized for the bucket of water—useful to me but a potential death trap for it. Not sure there was much more I could do—except to leave it alone, hopefully to recover—I left, still feeling regretful and a bit deficient in my abilities to understand and help. Awhile later I returned to the hot tub area and the spider was gone—hopefully carrying on its life in a much drier environment. Maybe I could place a screen over the bucket?
On the end of my spider's pedipalpi I saw tiny hands or pincer-like objects, and the spider began to use them to groom the adjacent leg. Was it wringing off the excess water? It first bent and then elevated a leg, as it continued to stroke downward on it.
Ever so slowly, it worked on the other legs and then began to move its whole body, as if gradually recovering the ability to do so again. I admired its body—a beautiful shade of gray. It was bulbously shaped and handsome. I watched its round bulk quiver and very subtly change shape and fill out, ever so slightly. Was it breathing? Was its stomach convulsing with all the water it had swallowed?
I sent my friend healing energy. I apologized for having the bucket of water there and for the near-drowning it had experienced. I reached out and touched its body, ever so gently, to soothe it. It recoiled a bit. OK, it didn't receive my touch as a caress, so I kept my hands to myself. I wanted to pick it up and bring it closer to my eyes, so I could see better what was going on, but resisted. I wondered why I held back. Was I respecting its space and deciding not to bring it up close to my nose and frighten it with my gigantic puss? Was I responding to archetypal fears that people have of arachnids? The possibility of getting bit did make me pause—even though I had no idea of how likely it was to strike out at me.
I sat there watching the spider from across a wide gulf of ignorance. I tried to open myself to its world and intuit what was going on and what was important to it. I once again apologized for the bucket of water—useful to me but a potential death trap for it. Not sure there was much more I could do—except to leave it alone, hopefully to recover—I left, still feeling regretful and a bit deficient in my abilities to understand and help. Awhile later I returned to the hot tub area and the spider was gone—hopefully carrying on its life in a much drier environment. Maybe I could place a screen over the bucket?
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Soggy Spider—Part 1
No matter how careful I am about not harming innocent creatures around the homestead, it inevitably happens that I do. I can’t completely avoid it. For example, when I walk across the yard, I may inadvertently step on a harmless ant or two.
The space we occupy on this planet is often earned at the expense of another creature—either by pushing it out of our niche or by outright killing it, either for food or just because it happens to be in our way. Nature usually achieves an exquisite balance between species that occupy the same territory—a balance that often sees them cooperating, but often also requires that they compete and that some of them expire in the process.
I have written before about how we do intentionally kill some so-called non-innocent and aggressive critters—those who have it as their intention to take over and rid us of “their” domain. House-invading ants and termites are examples. But there are countless species of plants and animals that are doing no harm to us, other than maybe being underfoot. One aspect of my developing a degree of sensitivity to the rights of these inhabitants to be part of my immediate surroundings is to try to understand them and discover ways in which we can cohabit peacefully. Over the years we’ve learned to do this with several insects and “weeds,” that we once considered obnoxious, but later came to see were quite harmless and even—once we purged ourselves of a little ignorance—could come to see them as beneficial partners.
Despite how hard I work not to harm our animal neighbors unnecessarily, however, I still do. Some of the harm is done simply because I don’t understand them well enough, and some is due simply to lack of sensitivity and attention. Here’s an example of the latter.
Planning to take an evening hot tub last year, I prepared to get it ready for a refill one day. Sitting beside the tub is a bucket of cold water that I keep for pouring over my head during a soak—to try keep my brain temperature low enough that I don’t fry any more gray matter than necessary, as I steep my body for a couple of hours in the hot spa. Picking up the water bucket to empty it out, I saw a spider sitting on the bottom.
Periodically I find critters who have crawled or fallen into the hot tub or the water bucket beside it—either floating on the top or having sunk to the bottom. Too many times I find them drowned. I always feel regret and apologize for having such a watery death trap awaiting them, and ponder what I might do next time to lessen the drowning toll.
On this occasion, however, the spider was neither floating nor dead. It surprisingly sat on the bottom of the water bucket, weakly flailing its legs about—not seeming to be in a panic, but very slowly moving its eight appendages.
I carefully emptied the bucket out, trying to deposit the spider gently on dry ground and not swamp it with a tsunami of water. Might it revive? It laid there upside down, a wet lump of a soggy critter, looking pretty sad, and no longer moving. I carefully turned it over and was surprised and delighted to see it open up a bit and stretch its legs out, looking almost normal. I happened to have a pair of reading glasses in my pocket, so I put them on and crouched down to inspect the soggy fellow. It sat there motionless.
Conclusion of Soggy Spider next time…
The space we occupy on this planet is often earned at the expense of another creature—either by pushing it out of our niche or by outright killing it, either for food or just because it happens to be in our way. Nature usually achieves an exquisite balance between species that occupy the same territory—a balance that often sees them cooperating, but often also requires that they compete and that some of them expire in the process.
I have written before about how we do intentionally kill some so-called non-innocent and aggressive critters—those who have it as their intention to take over and rid us of “their” domain. House-invading ants and termites are examples. But there are countless species of plants and animals that are doing no harm to us, other than maybe being underfoot. One aspect of my developing a degree of sensitivity to the rights of these inhabitants to be part of my immediate surroundings is to try to understand them and discover ways in which we can cohabit peacefully. Over the years we’ve learned to do this with several insects and “weeds,” that we once considered obnoxious, but later came to see were quite harmless and even—once we purged ourselves of a little ignorance—could come to see them as beneficial partners.
Despite how hard I work not to harm our animal neighbors unnecessarily, however, I still do. Some of the harm is done simply because I don’t understand them well enough, and some is due simply to lack of sensitivity and attention. Here’s an example of the latter.
Planning to take an evening hot tub last year, I prepared to get it ready for a refill one day. Sitting beside the tub is a bucket of cold water that I keep for pouring over my head during a soak—to try keep my brain temperature low enough that I don’t fry any more gray matter than necessary, as I steep my body for a couple of hours in the hot spa. Picking up the water bucket to empty it out, I saw a spider sitting on the bottom.
Periodically I find critters who have crawled or fallen into the hot tub or the water bucket beside it—either floating on the top or having sunk to the bottom. Too many times I find them drowned. I always feel regret and apologize for having such a watery death trap awaiting them, and ponder what I might do next time to lessen the drowning toll.
On this occasion, however, the spider was neither floating nor dead. It surprisingly sat on the bottom of the water bucket, weakly flailing its legs about—not seeming to be in a panic, but very slowly moving its eight appendages.
I carefully emptied the bucket out, trying to deposit the spider gently on dry ground and not swamp it with a tsunami of water. Might it revive? It laid there upside down, a wet lump of a soggy critter, looking pretty sad, and no longer moving. I carefully turned it over and was surprised and delighted to see it open up a bit and stretch its legs out, looking almost normal. I happened to have a pair of reading glasses in my pocket, so I put them on and crouched down to inspect the soggy fellow. It sat there motionless.
Conclusion of Soggy Spider next time…
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Birdfeeder Brigands—Part 2
The squirrel seems to have given up trying to climb aboard the feeder—although I saw him a couple of days later, mulling around on the ground, picking up seeds the birds had dropped. That’s OK, as long as he doesn’t hog the feeder and push out the birds. Have I won the squirrel arms race? I’m not at all sanguine about my triumph enduring. I wonder if he’s crouching back in the trees, pondering his next assault. I’ll stay vigilant.
The second round of feeder attacks continued, in yet another new challenge. A couple of mornings ago, as I stepped out the door, I heard a few fussing birds off to my left. I turned too see what appeared to be a hawk coming from the direction of the birds. It flashed by less than ten feet from me, and sailed on down the drive. I had apparently startled him, as he was diving towards the songbirds, and he hastily vacated the scene of his hoped-for meal.
We’ve never seen a hawk within several hundred feet of the house. Uh-oh! A new and different kind of test has arrived: a second raider of birdfeeders—not just stealing food, but lives. A hawk can look upon a feeder as a wonderful magnet to attract their meals. And I’ve helped him by recently placing the feeder out in the open, where he can take aim and attack!
I headed for one of my bird books. I needed to know more. The bird had flown by so fast that I was unable to tell which species it might be—or even to be positive it was a hawk. The book showed me that it indeed was a sharp-shinned hawk (by its coloring and size). It is a small hawk: about half the size of our other raptors. The book tells me that sharp-shinned hawks like to “hunt around houses and birdfeeders.” They hunt from a concealed perch, capturing “small birds by surprise in lightning-quick strikes.” My fears were confirmed!
So is the hawk my and the birds’ next ordeal? Will he return and begin picking off our cute songbirds? As I kept a close eye on the feeder after he left, I noticed that the birds had abandoned it for a half hour or so, but then slowly began to return.
I don’t like interfering with Mother Nature’s predator-prey duals—especially by projecting my emotions onto the situation. All creatures have to eat, and some eat each other. That’s how it goes. It’s one thing to happen upon a predator attacking its prey in the woods, where they are playing out their natural roles, and not get caught up in inappropriate feelings of sympathy. It’s quite another to have introduced a feeding station into the environment—one that attracts both cute little critters and their hungry foes. I’ve altered the natural dynamics by introducing an artificial source of food. So what is my responsibility when my actions lead to the harm of innocent creatures? It’s very complicated.
I guess I’d best remain vigilant—as I plan to be with the squirrelly invader—and see if the hawk returns. If I’m lucky, it won’t, and I won’t have to decide what to do next. On the other hand, it’s possible that it’s made a wonderful discovery, and will inevitably return. Or did I maybe scare it enough that it will seek meals in other places? How will I respond if it returns and kills one of those adorable chickadees? A hawk has to eat to survive, and cute little critters like songbirds are one of its crucial food items. Like a hawk, I will keep a sharp eye on the situation and see what comes and what it teaches me.
The second round of feeder attacks continued, in yet another new challenge. A couple of mornings ago, as I stepped out the door, I heard a few fussing birds off to my left. I turned too see what appeared to be a hawk coming from the direction of the birds. It flashed by less than ten feet from me, and sailed on down the drive. I had apparently startled him, as he was diving towards the songbirds, and he hastily vacated the scene of his hoped-for meal.
We’ve never seen a hawk within several hundred feet of the house. Uh-oh! A new and different kind of test has arrived: a second raider of birdfeeders—not just stealing food, but lives. A hawk can look upon a feeder as a wonderful magnet to attract their meals. And I’ve helped him by recently placing the feeder out in the open, where he can take aim and attack!
I headed for one of my bird books. I needed to know more. The bird had flown by so fast that I was unable to tell which species it might be—or even to be positive it was a hawk. The book showed me that it indeed was a sharp-shinned hawk (by its coloring and size). It is a small hawk: about half the size of our other raptors. The book tells me that sharp-shinned hawks like to “hunt around houses and birdfeeders.” They hunt from a concealed perch, capturing “small birds by surprise in lightning-quick strikes.” My fears were confirmed!
So is the hawk my and the birds’ next ordeal? Will he return and begin picking off our cute songbirds? As I kept a close eye on the feeder after he left, I noticed that the birds had abandoned it for a half hour or so, but then slowly began to return.
I don’t like interfering with Mother Nature’s predator-prey duals—especially by projecting my emotions onto the situation. All creatures have to eat, and some eat each other. That’s how it goes. It’s one thing to happen upon a predator attacking its prey in the woods, where they are playing out their natural roles, and not get caught up in inappropriate feelings of sympathy. It’s quite another to have introduced a feeding station into the environment—one that attracts both cute little critters and their hungry foes. I’ve altered the natural dynamics by introducing an artificial source of food. So what is my responsibility when my actions lead to the harm of innocent creatures? It’s very complicated.
I guess I’d best remain vigilant—as I plan to be with the squirrelly invader—and see if the hawk returns. If I’m lucky, it won’t, and I won’t have to decide what to do next. On the other hand, it’s possible that it’s made a wonderful discovery, and will inevitably return. Or did I maybe scare it enough that it will seek meals in other places? How will I respond if it returns and kills one of those adorable chickadees? A hawk has to eat to survive, and cute little critters like songbirds are one of its crucial food items. Like a hawk, I will keep a sharp eye on the situation and see what comes and what it teaches me.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Birdfeeder Brigands—Part 1
For many years now we’ve kept a birdfeeder in the side yard, and stocked it with sunflower seeds. It’s attracted a wonderful collection of birds year round, and we’ve wiled away many hours watching the antics of chickadees, titmice, finches, cardinals, juncos, sparrows, woodpeckers, blue jays, nuthatches, wrens, and towhees. In the last year mourning doves have also begun to come. They are shy birds who usually stay out of sight, but once they discovered the abundant cache of free food, they’ve become regulars. (In fact, I’ve had to increase the sunflower seed offering, because the doves can stuff an amazing quantity of seed in their crop and then fly off, to digest the treasure later.)
The majority of people who feed birds are often bedeviled by pests—the principle one being that fat-tailed tree rodent, the squirrel. Urban squirrels are especially pernicious and persistent. Living amongst all those city cats and automobiles, squirrels have adapted to become extremely clever at dodging cars and robbing birdfeeders. I’ve read many a tale of the constant battles between urban bird-feeding humans and squirrels. My bird magazines are chock-full of ads for exotic and expensive “squirrel-proof” feeders. (I don’t believe there is such a thing.) It’s a type of arms race: a continuing battle of wits between the furry invaders and their human foes—one in which we’re confident we have the cognitive advantage, but repeatedly find that we’re facing a foe who is very determined and inventive.
For a couple of decades now, we’ve had no squirrels come near our feeder. It’s not clear to me why, but we have few of them in the woods and the cat does a pretty good job of keeping them confined to the forest (or overhead, bombing him with acorns). A few weeks ago, however, I glanced out and saw what appeared to be a very fat and fluffy dove on the feeder. Wait, it’s a squirrel! I flew out the door and chased him off—hoping that I’d scared him enough that he’d keep to the trees. Hah! Once a squirrel samples that easy a treat, he’ll return, and this guy did the next day.
I sensed we’d entered a new epoch at the feeder. Squirrels will remain contenders and he’d have to be dealt with. I thought briefly about letting him make his periodic visits and sharing the larder with him, but within a couple of days he was hogging the platform. I was envisioning him filling its fat cheeks—emptying the feeder again and again—and carrying the seeds off to his lair and stashing several winters’ supply there.
Counteraction was required. I considered a few alternative anti-squirrel schemes (one of them was not an expensive high-tech feeder that would see me join the arms race). The main vulnerability of the existing setup was having the feeder too close to a tree. Squirrels can leap amazing gaps, so I needed to move the feeder out in the open. Once again, the Internet came to the rescue. After considering numerous low-tech ideas described there, I strung a thin, strong wire between the tree and an outbuilding and suspended the feeder from the middle of the span. Later that day I saw the squirrel on the ground beneath the feeder, longingly looking up and realizing that it was beyond his leaping ability. Egad, foiled again!
More on the assaults of brigands next time…
The majority of people who feed birds are often bedeviled by pests—the principle one being that fat-tailed tree rodent, the squirrel. Urban squirrels are especially pernicious and persistent. Living amongst all those city cats and automobiles, squirrels have adapted to become extremely clever at dodging cars and robbing birdfeeders. I’ve read many a tale of the constant battles between urban bird-feeding humans and squirrels. My bird magazines are chock-full of ads for exotic and expensive “squirrel-proof” feeders. (I don’t believe there is such a thing.) It’s a type of arms race: a continuing battle of wits between the furry invaders and their human foes—one in which we’re confident we have the cognitive advantage, but repeatedly find that we’re facing a foe who is very determined and inventive.
For a couple of decades now, we’ve had no squirrels come near our feeder. It’s not clear to me why, but we have few of them in the woods and the cat does a pretty good job of keeping them confined to the forest (or overhead, bombing him with acorns). A few weeks ago, however, I glanced out and saw what appeared to be a very fat and fluffy dove on the feeder. Wait, it’s a squirrel! I flew out the door and chased him off—hoping that I’d scared him enough that he’d keep to the trees. Hah! Once a squirrel samples that easy a treat, he’ll return, and this guy did the next day.
I sensed we’d entered a new epoch at the feeder. Squirrels will remain contenders and he’d have to be dealt with. I thought briefly about letting him make his periodic visits and sharing the larder with him, but within a couple of days he was hogging the platform. I was envisioning him filling its fat cheeks—emptying the feeder again and again—and carrying the seeds off to his lair and stashing several winters’ supply there.
Counteraction was required. I considered a few alternative anti-squirrel schemes (one of them was not an expensive high-tech feeder that would see me join the arms race). The main vulnerability of the existing setup was having the feeder too close to a tree. Squirrels can leap amazing gaps, so I needed to move the feeder out in the open. Once again, the Internet came to the rescue. After considering numerous low-tech ideas described there, I strung a thin, strong wire between the tree and an outbuilding and suspended the feeder from the middle of the span. Later that day I saw the squirrel on the ground beneath the feeder, longingly looking up and realizing that it was beyond his leaping ability. Egad, foiled again!
More on the assaults of brigands next time…
Monday, December 6, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Bombardier Squirrel
We have experienced a weird phenomenon several times now in the fall—so I'm beginning to believe that it’s not just coincidental. We have a squirrel that bombs us—or rather the cat—with acorn particles, as we do tai chi in the evening. It was, at first, a little hard to believe; I thought that it might be an accident, but it's repeated itself nearly half a dozen times now. I think the squirrel has learned to be a joyful bombardier.
My mate and I do our tai chi routine each clement evening, on a little runway that I built just above a little stream behind the house. It's a wonderful place to do tai chi. It is back in the trees, so on hot summer days it's nicely shaded. The elevated runway gives one a great vantage point, from which to survey the domain, as we very slowly and meditatively twirl and spin through the movements.
Animal sounds provide a pleasant background to the meditative process—with birds singing, crickets chirping, woodpeckers rapping on hollow branches, hawks screeching, squirrels chattering, blue jays screaming, Canada geese honking, the wind breezing, and cicadas zinging—depending on the time of year. Unfortunately, we sometimes also get exposed to airplanes droning overhead, distant dogs incessantly barking, noisy trucks on distant roads, neighbors target practicing—but these distractions really give us the opportunity to develop a little more equanimity during the meditative practice.
The dog and cat accompany us—lying serenely nearby and lazily picking up on the good vibes, as we do our routine. The intelligent dog senses just when we are done, as she jumps up to greet us and congratulate us on yet another day of gathering the benefits of universal energy. The cat just lies among the leaves nearby, immobile, watching for errant birds that might be a wee bit inattentive and vulnerable to seizure.
A squirrel likes to gambol in one of those overhead oaks. It is very sassy. It looks down (literally) upon us, knowing that the cat could quickly dispatch it, but also knowing that high up in its tree, it is quite safe from this nasty feline. The squirrel shows its sass by berating the cat, loudly and lengthily. It scolds and taunts him, as if jeering and daring him to come up and try to catch him. Its racket can threaten our concentration and cause us to chuckle.
In the fall acorns begin to sprout on the oaks that shade us. The squirrel seems to have had the insight that acorns make very nice missiles to drop on a cat, so it bombs away. The cat’s eyes become glued to the squirrel, as it casually proceeds to pluck an acorn and chew off pieces that it deftly drops upon its attentive foe below. In the meantime, we valiantly carry on with our tai chi, trying to ignore the sound of acorn particles pelting the forest floor around us, or trying not to look at the cat and chuckle and loose our place, as we watch him ducking the tiny bombs.
Tai chi is supposed to be a mindful, meditative routine; during which we (try to) single-mindedly assume one of 108 sequential positions, in which we can easily screw up, if our attention gets diverted. (That's a good reason to do it with a partner. When one of us loses concentration and messes up, the other may get you back on track.) It can be very distracting (but hilarious) when a squirrel drops little acorn bombs from above, as it delights in pestering your cat. It’s just one more kind of challenge in learning the Chinese gentle martial arts outdoors.
My mate and I do our tai chi routine each clement evening, on a little runway that I built just above a little stream behind the house. It's a wonderful place to do tai chi. It is back in the trees, so on hot summer days it's nicely shaded. The elevated runway gives one a great vantage point, from which to survey the domain, as we very slowly and meditatively twirl and spin through the movements.
Animal sounds provide a pleasant background to the meditative process—with birds singing, crickets chirping, woodpeckers rapping on hollow branches, hawks screeching, squirrels chattering, blue jays screaming, Canada geese honking, the wind breezing, and cicadas zinging—depending on the time of year. Unfortunately, we sometimes also get exposed to airplanes droning overhead, distant dogs incessantly barking, noisy trucks on distant roads, neighbors target practicing—but these distractions really give us the opportunity to develop a little more equanimity during the meditative practice.
The dog and cat accompany us—lying serenely nearby and lazily picking up on the good vibes, as we do our routine. The intelligent dog senses just when we are done, as she jumps up to greet us and congratulate us on yet another day of gathering the benefits of universal energy. The cat just lies among the leaves nearby, immobile, watching for errant birds that might be a wee bit inattentive and vulnerable to seizure.
A squirrel likes to gambol in one of those overhead oaks. It is very sassy. It looks down (literally) upon us, knowing that the cat could quickly dispatch it, but also knowing that high up in its tree, it is quite safe from this nasty feline. The squirrel shows its sass by berating the cat, loudly and lengthily. It scolds and taunts him, as if jeering and daring him to come up and try to catch him. Its racket can threaten our concentration and cause us to chuckle.
In the fall acorns begin to sprout on the oaks that shade us. The squirrel seems to have had the insight that acorns make very nice missiles to drop on a cat, so it bombs away. The cat’s eyes become glued to the squirrel, as it casually proceeds to pluck an acorn and chew off pieces that it deftly drops upon its attentive foe below. In the meantime, we valiantly carry on with our tai chi, trying to ignore the sound of acorn particles pelting the forest floor around us, or trying not to look at the cat and chuckle and loose our place, as we watch him ducking the tiny bombs.
Tai chi is supposed to be a mindful, meditative routine; during which we (try to) single-mindedly assume one of 108 sequential positions, in which we can easily screw up, if our attention gets diverted. (That's a good reason to do it with a partner. When one of us loses concentration and messes up, the other may get you back on track.) It can be very distracting (but hilarious) when a squirrel drops little acorn bombs from above, as it delights in pestering your cat. It’s just one more kind of challenge in learning the Chinese gentle martial arts outdoors.
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