Wildlife - Moxie Gardiner

Bird Counting: A Christmas Tradition That Saves Lives (Really)

And a metaphor for counting your blessings instead of your losses and disappointments.

*A downy woodpecker searching for bark beetles. All photos © Moxie Gardiner*.

As I grow older, I am learning that holidays can be painful reminders of what we once had and have lost — if we let them. I recently found myself pointlessly wading into this mental morass, despite the unfolding of a brisk, sunny day. I eventually shook it off, reminding myself that dwelling in the past is like diving for a lost wedding ring in the deepest part of the ocean. You’ll never be able to retrieve it, and you’ll waste a lot of energy trying.

So I decided the way out of my funk was to focus on the future and establish some new holiday traditions. As luck would have it, I stumbled upon a Christmas activity that I had known nothing about, but that has taken place every year since 1900! It is the National Audubon Society’s annual Christmas Bird Count. Intrigued, I signed up to participate as soon as I read about it.

*Fellow birders searching for the elusive Carolina wren.*

According to the Audubon Society’s website,[1] the count was the brainchild of a man named Frank Chapman. Chapman decided to come up with an alternative to the “side hunts” that were very popular at the time, whereby teams of hunters would compete on Christmas day to see who could shoot the most birds and other wildlife. The Audubon Society, a relatively new organization at the beginning of the 20th century, decided to popularize the idea of counting birds instead of hunting them, and has conducted this data-gathering event—which now spans all of the Americas—for the past 125 years.[2]

*The many ponds at the research center provided ample opportunity to spot ducks, geese, and other waterfowl.*

It was still pitch dark when I awoke at 6 am on December 21^st, quickly bundling up to brave the predawn chill. The count was to begin shortly after the sun rose, when the birds would be most active. I joined a small group of birders on the grounds of the US Geological Survey’s Science Center in Leetown, WV, an expansive wooded property replete with the ponds and cold-water springs that are essential to the fish and aquatic research conducted there, and are also ideal for bird watching.

Most of the birders in our merry band were equipped with powerful binoculars and bird call identification apps on their phones, but I had only the zoom lens on my trusty Canon camera. I wanted not only to document the birds we spotted, but also to bring back my own memories of the entire experience (and to blog about it). I was not disappointed.

*Hard to tell this is a bluebird from the front, but you can’t mistake its iridescent blue back.*

Our small group walked close to three miles that morning and manually recorded a total of 41 different types of birds (not numbers of birds—we saw at least 100 Canada geese alone). I got a chance to see a belted kingfisher for the first time, and to capture a photo of a yellow-bellied sapsucker. Mostly I wandered around filled with awe, marveling at the peaceful landscape, the blending of bird songs, and the detailed birding knowledge of the group leaders. I felt privileged to be in the company of fellow travelers who take seriously the importance of protecting all of God’s creatures.

*In this photo, the yellow-bellied sapsucker is likely eating berries,* *though it prefers sap.*

As I drove back from Leetown, I reflected upon why this experience was so meaningful to me. Yes, it was a full immersion in a beautiful, natural setting, but I also appreciated the annual bird count’s premise that counting the living is much more important than counting the dead. For me it is the Christmas equivalent of counting your blessings instead of your losses and disappointments. It is a tradition I plan to embrace for years to come.

Did you establish any new holiday traditions this year? Did any involve nature? I would love to read your comments in the section below!

[1] https://www.audubon.org/community-science/christmas-bird-count/history-christmas-bird-count

[2] According to the National Audubon Society, over 62,000 volunteers participate in each year’s count, contributing to the longest-running database in ornithology.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates, grows tomatoes, and enjoys a good online Zumba routine at home on winter evenings. Virgin Snow is her first novel, and she plans to publish Book Two in the trilogy in 2026.

A Remembrance, in the Grand Canyon of the East

Our main objective was to hike the Gorge Trail in Letchworth State Park, to the three major waterfalls that are the highlight of this stunning place.

On a recent bright September morning, I along with seven friends who first met in college many years ago, drove together to Letchworth State Park in upstate New York, to bid a final farewell to a ninth friend, who passed away this year.

It is always a challenge to determine the best way to honor someone whom you remember as funny, outgoing, and full of life. Cliff was a real character, the kind of guy who would definitely not want a solemn and reverent remembrance as the coda to his final chapter. He was a rugby player, after all. I think we made the right decision in selecting this glorious park as the place to celebrate his life. Its exquisite natural beauty served as a balm that soothed the pain of our loss.

*Letchworth is known at the “Grand Canyon of the East” for the gorges carved by the Genesee River.* *All photos are ©* Moxie Gardiner.

The park was first home to the Seneca Nation, and much later, the private estate of William Pryor Letchworth. To his credit, the wealthy industrialist preserved much of the natural flora and fauna of his surroundings, and eventually bequeathed his thousand-acre estate to the state of New York as a public park. The government, over time, further developed it into the 14,000 acre park it is today. It has become known as “The Grand Canyon of the East” because the swiftly flowing Genesee River has carved a wide gorge, as deep as 550 feet in some places, through the 17 miles of the long, narrow park.

*There are spectacular views (and photo ops) from many of the hiking trails.*

*Well over 100 steps down to see the falls was not so bad, but coming back up…!*

As it turned out, the timing of this memorial meant my friends and I were at the park just before the “leaf-peeping” season began. The place was not crowded that day, but for those who might be planning a visit, we learned that in 2025, Letchworth was voted — for the second time — “best state park in the United States” by USA Today. Letchworth now sees over a million visitors each year, so if you would like to enjoy a peaceful hike through this park, plan your visit accordingly.

We began our visit at the pretty, well-appointed Visitor Center to pick up a map, study the trails, and decide where we would begin our hike.[1] If we had intended to spend more time there, we could have visited the Letchworth history museum, the Glen Iris Inn, or the Council Grounds where a long house built by the Senecas still stands. There are also opportunities for hiking, biking, kayaking, horse-back riding, and even hot-air ballooning, but those would need to wait for a different kind of visit.

*The ever-flowing waters of spectacular Middle Falls.*

Our main objective was to hike the Gorge Trail to the three major waterfalls that are the highlight of this stunning park. Waterfalls have long been a symbol of eternal life, with their constant flow of life-affirming waters and endless rejuvenation. What better way to remind ourselves of the cycle of life at a time of personal bereavement? At many points along the way, we reminisced about Cliff.

When we finally reached the falls, we were not disappointed. Although the path was steep in places, and we oldsters needed to rest from time to time, the ability to stand near each of these falls as they thundered far below us, was breathtaking and worth the effort. After our hike we drove to several more scenic overlooks, and at one of them, someone noticed a sign that had our friend’s first name on it. We decided it was a message from him, telling us we had done the right thing by coming here.

Afterwards, I reflected on this unique way to honor a friend’s memory, and decided that it is something that ought to be done more often. I hope when it is my time, my friends and family will take a long walk through a natural setting, and know that I am there, and that I am with them.

Have you ever visited Letchworth State Park? Have you ever honored a friend’s memory in this way? I would love to read your thoughts in the comment section, below.

[1] For more information on Letchworth State Park, visit https://letchworthpark.com/

Experiencing the Magic of an Appalachian Bog

I’m not sure I can remember a time when I felt more attuned to the natural world than I did in that bog.

*Exploring a hidden bog in the Appalachian highlands. All photos ©* *Moxie Gardiner.*

This past weekend, I had the good fortune to attend a three-day master naturalist conference in Canaan Valley, West Virginia. This spectacular setting, an upland plateau deep in the Appalachian Mountains, is noteworthy for being one of the largest wetland areas of its type in the southern and central Appalachian region. It is a dreamscape for naturalists seeking to observe unique flora and fauna more often found in Canada than in the warmer mid-Atlantic states.

My purpose, however, was to explore a new way of thinking about nature that I’ve only recently discovered. In a nutshell, I need to think of myself not as a naturalist, or master naturalist. I am nature.

When I first read this sentiment in a poem, it took me a minute to wrap my head around it.[1] The philosophical concept expressed was that nature is not something to be simply observed and appreciated, like a lovely display in a living museum. Rather, we humans are an essential part of the natural world, just like all the green and growing things around us.

*Listening mindfully, one can hear the music of the tiny streams meandering through the bog.*

This suggests that we should have a stronger attachment to birds, trees and insects than to the man-made devices we depend on today. Yet ask the average person to distinguish the song of the white-throated sparrow from that of the chickadee, the maple tree from an oak, or a damselfly from a dragonfly, and they will probably not be able to tell you. Why? Possibly because they feel no connection to these things, and have no interest in learning how to distinguish them. The point of that poem was that unless we feel we are a part of the natural world, we won’t care about it as much as we need to—that is, as if our lives depend on it.

I decided to explore this idea of helping humans feel they are an intrinsic part of the natural order, after taking one of my favorite classes this weekend: “Nature Journaling By Sensing the Natural World,” taught by artist and storyteller Linda Durrett. Linda taught us a helpful method for making connections with nature by using all our senses (including our “sixth” sense) but in reverse order. We began by sitting quietly with our eyes closed for a good length of time and just listening. This was followed by (with eyes still closed) smelling, touching, tasting, and feeling the energy of what was around us.

*Walking in a bog can be treacherous. We pulled more than one person out of the muck.*

It was only after we had explored as much as we could with our eyes closed, that we opened them, and went from focusing on the big picture (the landscape) to the tiny things we needed to get down on the ground to see. For me the experience was enlightening, and I learned a great deal while rooted to the same spot for an hour.

I decided to use this approach the next morning when we visited a hidden bog far off the beaten path. Aside from our small group, there were no other people around. By listening first with my eyes closed, I heard the music of the bog—the squishy sound of the wet sphagnum moss beneath our feet, the tiny streams that gurgled through, the whir of insects on the wing, and the songs of the birds who feast on them. The bog smelled wet and earthy and felt like walking on foam pillows. The energy of the bog was alive, but hushed and secretive. Above the surface, all was calm and peaceful, but below our feet the earth moved and shifted with restless vigor.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a wide open space, seemingly devoid of biological diversity. But when I crouched close to the boggy mounds, I discovered a whole tiny world of plants that have thrived in such places for eons.

*There at my feet lay a tiny world of prehistoric wonder.*

*The tiny drosera, commonly known as sundew, is a darling carnivorous plant!*

I’m not sure I can remember a time when I felt more attuned to nature than I did in that bog, and I attribute that to Linda Durrett’s methodology. I felt an almost prehistoric connection, a feeling my ancestors might have had 300,000 years ago when they entered such a place.

It’s funny how, despite our ability to find information about anyone and anything in an instant, we still have so much to learn about the things that are most elemental and real. Try this approach of immersing yourself in the natural world. I think you’ll feel at home there.

Do you have a favorite spot where you feel at one with the natural world? I would love to hear your stories, in the comment section below.

[1] I did an internet search but I cannot find the poem, or I would add the link here. However, if you would like to read some lovely poems which embrace the same sentiment, read Poems of Earth and Spirit, by Kai Siedenburg at https:/ournatureconnection.com.

The Hidden Beauty of Spring Ephemerals in the Appalachians

Why is finding these small, delicate flowers so satisfying that I go looking for them every year?

*Virginia* *Spring Beauties have a delicate pink stripe down the center of their white petals. Photos © Moxie Gardiner.*

We have a cabin in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, deep inside an area of West Virginia called “Valley and Ridge” by geologists. The land undulates here in soft folds, like a rumpled baby’s blanket. The forests are still wild and unspoiled, and perpetually covered with dead fall and a thick mat of leaves.

A favorite springtime ritual here is to take an early morning hike in search of the earliest harbingers of the season—the wildflowers known as “spring ephemerals.” These small flowers usually bloom just after the last snow melt, but before the first cluster of leaves opens on the trees.

*Who doesn’t love the rich purples of the ubiquitous spring violets*?

These perennials are called “ephemeral” because they bloom and disappear quickly, then reappear the following spring almost to the day. They are most often found in rich, moist undisturbed woodlands, and rarely found elsewhere. They are impossible to cultivate because once they are moved, they quickly die.

*Although it’s name sounds dangerous, the cutleaf toothwort is a dainty little flower.*

As a new Master Naturalist, I was curious about why I was unable to carefully dig up one of these precious plants, and successfully move it to my wildflower garden. After doing a bit of research, I learned something quite interesting.

It turns out that wooded properties are ideal for something called myrmecochory, a fancy word for seed dispersal by ants. Ants are attracted to the seeds of spring ephemerals and carry them back to their nests, where the fatty appendages attached to the seeds are consumed by the young. The seeds themselves are discarded and thrown into a rich “trash heap” that stimulates germination of the seeds. Neither the ant colony nor the discarded seeds are ever far from each other, hence the same flowers pretty much grow in the same spot every year.

*Hidden beneath the Spicebush forest along the banks of Sleepy Creek, is a cornucopia of spring ephemerals.*

*Mayapples are up along the creek but not yet blooming.*

Knowing this, I was even more eager to begin my search this morning, and set off when the sun was at a low angle, reflecting off the merrily rolling creek. As I walked along the banks, I spotted the first bluets, mayapples, coltsfoot, Virginia spring beauties, tiny violets, and of course, dandelions. Bees buzzed about the pussywillow bush, where they were busy gathering the first nectar of the season.

Unspotted were the yellow trout lilies, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Dutchman’s breeches with their funny trouser-like flowers, or rue anemone with its feathery leaves—all of which are native to this part of the country. A few times we have found that most favored of West Virginian delicacies—morel mushrooms—nearby, but not today. The weather conditions have to be just right.

*These bluets are so tiny they are easily overlooked on the forest floor.*

As I wrapped up the search I asked myself, why is finding these small, delicate flowers so satisfying that I go looking for them every year? Is it because they are elusive and short-lived? Or is it because in a world of big, beautiful showy flowers, they are overlooked and unloved, which makes me love them more? Perhaps, like all hidden treasures, it is the search itself that makes the quest to find ephemerals so intriguing.

Over the next couple of months, spring will unfold in all its glory, with lilacs and cherry trees and daffodils and tulips covering the landscape in a wash of color. Let’s not forget to let our gaze fall downward, to take in the small beauties that lie at our feet. In a world with plenty of distractions, it is so easy to overlook the small but important stuff.

*The bees had no problems finding the pussywillows as soon as they flowered.*

What are the hallmarks of spring for you? Whether it is Easter Eggs, daffodils, or the first pitch on Opening Day, I’d love to hear from you, in the comment section below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is the first novel in what she hopes will be a trilogy. She is currently working on Book Two.

Saving the Life of a Friend

I sang to the bird, told it not to fear the unknown, and that it was OK to let go of life, whenever it was time.

When I saw the small, still body lying on our deck, I feared the worst.

*My hummingbird friend at his favorite feeder.*
*All photos* © *Moxie Gardiner.*

The tiny hummingbird had visited our feeders every day, so I knew him well. I would hear him before I saw him, a loud buzz next to my ear, zzz-zzz, then gone in a flash, until he reappeared at the feeder, poised in mid-air for a quick sip.

Sometimes a second male would appear, and our hummingbird was always ready for battle. Hummingbirds are very territorial, fiercely protective of any food source they can count on, unlike the flowers that might be blooming one day and gone the next. Our hummingbird was not about to let an interloper horn in on a grubstake he believed was his alone.

I will never know what misfortune had befallen him that afternoon. We have a large picture window that had previously led to the demise of a beautiful goldfinch we found lying on our deck with a broken neck, the imprint of its beak still in the window glass. Or maybe the other male hummingbird had tried to eliminate his competition once and for all.

Sadly, I bent to scoop up my little friend with a dustpan, as I had the hapless goldfinch, and to my surprise I noticed the faintest flutter in its chest. The bird was not moving though, and did not react when I stroked its brilliant, ruby-colored chest feathers. I assumed it had a broken neck, and it was only a matter of time before it passed away.

I’ve known people who would have told me at this point, that the decent thing, the humane thing, would be to put the tiny creature out of its misery. But right or wrong, I knew I was not capable of taking its life, so I spoke to it and told it I would make the end of its life as comfortable as possible.

I made a small nest of fresh green leaves and gently laid the bird in the center. I had never been this close to a hummingbird before. I could see the iridescence of its emerald feathers, the ruby color at its throat, its needle-like beak, and the tiny slits where its closed eyes were. I sang to the bird, told it not to fear the unknown, and that it was OK to let go of life, whenever it was time. Words I had spoken before, and hoped they had provided some comfort.

Then it blinked! I was so overjoyed I started to cry. I knew then it was still alive and had just been stunned, probably from hitting the window. I watched him, me barely breathing, as he rolled onto his stomach and sat for a moment, looking at me. “Go,” I said, “and remember me.” A moment later, he launched, heading straight up in the air. Then he pivoted horizontally, and in a flash was gone.

*A moment of pure joy–the hummingbird in flight!*

I see him back at the feeder nearly every day, with no signs of the trauma he endured one summer afternoon. No sign that he recognizes me either, or appreciates my concern for his well being. He simply goes on being what he is, one of the world’s most beautiful, fascinating creatures.

For me, the fact that he lived was enough. How I wish I could have saved every friend that I’ve lost, but I could not. What I have learned though, over my many years of life, is to always be there for your friends, to the very end if possible. Just in case.

I would love for you to share your stories in the comment section below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

For further information on male hummingbird territoriality visit https://www.allaboutbirds.org/news/why-do-hummingbirds-fight-so-much/

The Songs of Summer You Won’t Find on YouTube

Nature now provides the “heavy rotation” for me.

*Lying by the pool on the warm cement, transistor radio nearby, listening to that summer’s hottest hits. All photos ©* *Moxie Gardiner.*

There are a number of iconic songs from my teenage years that will forever form the soundtrack of summer for me. “Hot Town Summer in the City,” by The Lovin’ Spoonful, “Hello, I Love You,” by The Doors, “In the Summertime,” by Mungo Jerry, and later, “School’s Out” by Alice Cooper and “Margaritaville,” by Jimmy Buffett. Everyone at the pool had their favorites, and in those days you could go to the pay phone hanging on the wall, invest a dime to call the radio station, and ask the DJ to put “your” song into the rotation so you and your friends would be sure to hear it while the warm sun kissed your skin, poolside.

I am no longer urban, nor a kid, and like all things in life, the songs of summer for me have changed. I live in the country now, and while my ear is still attentive to new music, it is not for the type found on YouTube or Spotify. Nature now provides the “heavy rotation” for me.

It starts with the “dawn chorus” just before the sun begins to peek over the mountain.[1] Robins are the first and loudest to sing in the pre-dawn, followed at first light by a host of others—chickadees, sparrows, wood thrushes, cardinals and warblers among them. Off in the distance crows call to each other while a woodpecker drums a steady beat on a hollow tree. When I take my morning walk, I no longer hear the splashes of children in a swimming pool, but the play of water over the rocks in Sleepy Creek and the rustle of leaves in the sycamore trees.

*The perfect place to listen to the night symphony.*

As lovely as nature’s morning sounds can be, my favorite is its night music, which I have only recently come to understand and appreciate. The evening symphony begins with the melancholy calls of the barred owls, followed closely by the bass notes of the bullfrogs in the pond, and the plinking of the moths against the porch lights.

*Oh, the things you will hear on a moonlight walk through woods….*

*One thing you’ll come to know is the mournful melody of the barred owl. This one was looking in my window!*

One of my favorite field trips while working on my Master Naturalist certification, was a moonlight walk through a nature preserve to learn to differentiate the songs of the many singing insects. I used to think that the insect I was listening to at night was the cricket, but soon learned that grasshoppers, katydids, and cicadas all add their voices to the nocturnal serenade, and each species contributes its own unique sound. As if to complete each evening concert, fireflies light up the stage with their flashing strobes.

As we grow older, our tastes and sensibilities change, as do the sounds that now sit comfortably in our ears. Yes, I still love those iconic songs of the ’60s and ‘70s and enjoy them when I take my occasional walks down memory lane. But now, in my ongoing quest for peace and serenity, I turn to the birds, the bees, and the singing insects to move my soul, instead of my feet.

What songs or sounds do you consider to be the hallmarks of summer? Please share your thoughts in the comments below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1] If you have never heard the sound of the dawn chorus, check out this video on YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePCG8xt158s

The Magnificent Willows of Western New York

For centuries, poets, writers and philosophers have been inspired by weeping willow trees. So have I.

I love all trees. Horse chestnuts, hackberries, hickories and hornbeams. Oak trees, pine trees, palm trees, even family trees. But my favorite of all the arboreal sentinels, the evocative one that brings back childhood memories of summer picnics, warm breezes, and first kisses under its lovely, curtain-like fronds, is salix babylonica, commonly known as the weeping willow.

For centuries, poets, writers and philosophers have been inspired by willow trees, as have I. [1] William Makepeace Thackeray, a 19^th poet and author of Vanity Fair, wrote an ode about its appeal as a trysting place for lovers, entitled “The Willow-Tree.”

Once to the willow-tree
A maid came fearful,
Pale seemed her cheek to be,
Her blue eye tearful;
Soon as she saw the tree,
Her step moved fleeter,
No one was there—ah me!
No one to meet her!

*Many a romance has begun in the willow’s hidden bower.* *All photos ©* *Moxie Gardiner.*

But it isn’t love alone that this unusual looking tree evokes. The tiny, cascading leaves are thought to resemble falling tears, and so the tree is sometimes associated with melancholy and sadness, even death. Unsurprisingly, specimens can be found in Buffalo’s Forest Lawn and other cemeteries. There is also the tragic story of some 300 soldiers who died of illness during the War of 1812 in a place not far from Buffalo’s Delaware Park, and buried in shallow graves. A Dr. Daniel Chapin, who lived nearby, is said to have later reburied the men and marked the spot with willow trees.[2]

*Willows thrive on the banks of rivers and ponds like this one near the Buffalo History Museum’s Japanese Garden.*

Today, weeping willows can be found throughout Buffalo’s beautifully landscaped park system. Intrigued by the mysteries of the weeping willow, I am always on the lookout for one, and was therefore overjoyed to discover two enormous specimens swaying over Hoyt Lake on a recent visit to Delaware Park. I assumed, based on their size, that they had to be hundreds of years old. But after some research I have since learned that weeping willows grow rapidly, and unfortunately, only live for about 65 years.

Which begged the question why, if they are so comparatively short-lived, have I seen so many willow trees throughout the parks, meadows, cemeteries, and along the waterways of Western New York?

*This past year, I planted my very own weeping willow by the pond for further inspiration.*

It turns out that this part of the state provides the ideal habitat for weeping willows, thanks to its proximity to the Great Lakes and plenty of lake-effect moisture. These trees love damp environments and can consume up to 100 gallons of water a day, so I expect they will be a feature of the Western New York landscape for many centuries to come.

Does the weeping willow have the same emotional impact on you that it has on me? What memories does it conjure—happiness, sadness, or fond memories of secret dalliances under its enchanting boughs? Please share your thoughts in the comments, below!

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1] His poem also inspired a chapter in my novel, Virgin Snow.

[2] For more information about this tragic event, see 300 bodies in Delaware Park: The War of 1812 | Features | buffalospree.com

The Healing Powers of Nature

For those who might be seeking to deal with grief in a manner both healthy and spiritual, here are ways nature can help you ease the pain.

I almost decided not to write a blog this month. I have been weighed down by grief, both personal and collective, so profound that I’ve found it hard to find the spark of creativity it takes to write these short essays. But write I must, if for no other reason than to process through these feelings. I do not intend to delve into politics or policy solutions here. There are other venues for that.

*Forest bathing. Photos copyright @ Moxie Gardiner.*

I am not alone in my sadness, of course. There are families and extended families and friends of those families, grieving the loss of innocents murdered while grocery shopping, watching a movie in school, or having the misfortune to live in a city close to a war zone. There are times when my faith in humanity abandons me.

When that happens, I turn to nature for guidance on how the world should work. How to live life in harmony with my surroundings. How to evolve and adapt to new challenges. How to heal from whatever injuries or losses one might suffer. I cannot solve the problem of man’s inhumanity to man, but I can observe the natural world’s daily efforts to achieve beauty, balance, and peaceful co-existence.

This month my heart goes out to my fellow Buffalonians, both current and former, who are dealing with the ramifications of a senseless act we had hoped our beloved city would never have to endure. For those who might be seeking a way to deal with their grief in a manner that is both healthy and spiritual, here are 10 simple ways nature can help you ease the pain:

*Few sounds are more soothing than rain falling on puddles.*

Take a walk in the rain. A gentle rain is the world’s way of sharing its tears with you. Weep with it, and when the sky clears and the sun comes out, look for the rainbows.

Listen to the birds. Birds express themselves through song. Listen to the mournful tune of the white throated sparrow or the joyful sounds of the cardinal to help you come to terms with your own emotions.

Appreciate the pollinators. Pollinators like birds, bats, bees, and butterflies are key to the cycle of life. More than a third of all human food is the result of their hard work and determination. Watch them to be reminded of how focused activity can help distract a troubled mind.

Bathe in a forest. The Japanese call it shinrin-yoku and believe that simply walking in a wooded setting can lower stress, lessen depression, and ease the sorrow related to grief. By inhaling oxygen and the other compounds released by trees and plants, one can reap the benefits of aromatherapy, for free.

Sit by the water. Grief, like water, ebbs and flows. Some days it will crash against you like the waves of Lake Erie, at other times it will murmur in the background like a sleepy creek. Find a good spot near your favorite body of water and contemplate its ever-changing sights and sounds.

Honor the beauty of flowers. Perhaps because we know their life is short and beauty fleeting, most people love flowers. Flowers in the wild, though, have a special purpose, attracting pollinators, removing toxins, absorbing carbon dioxide, and producing oxygen. Always stop and appreciate a wildflower in the full glory of its short but important life.

*The joy of watching life begin from a tiny seed.*

Watch something grow from seed. There is nothing quite so fulfilling as to watch life unfold from start to finish. Observe that when a plant dies, it leaves behind its seeds to begin life anew. Little in life, it reminds us, is final.

Stare at the stars. It helps to remember there are forces at work greater than ourselves, and that each of us have our time and place in the unfolding of the cosmos.

*Get low to the ground like a child and you’ll be surprised by what you see.* *Can you spot the spider?*

Observe nature with the eyes of a child. Look at the world around you as if for the first time. Get down on the ground, dig in the dirt, watch a bug crawl. If you have a child in your life to appreciate nature with, so much the better.

Never miss a sunset. I needn’t explain the symbolism of the dramatic splash of color that ends our days—or begins the next one. If time is the great healer of a grieving heart, getting from sunrise to sunset and back again is our primary goal, until the world makes sense again.

There is no need to travel to national parks or far off places to experience the healing power of nature. (Although if you do get that opportunity, take it). Most people can enjoy the benefits I describe within a long walk or short drive from their home. This summer, try one or all of the above. If you are grieving, I hope it helps you.

What do you appreciate about nature? Do you ever turn to the natural world for solace? I would love to hear your reaction to this piece, in the comments below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.

I Got Slimed by a Whale (and Loved It)

I have been fascinated by whales since I read the Classics Illustrated comic book version of Moby Dick in the fourth grade. (I was rooting for the whale.) But for most of my life, wherever I went hoping to observe one of these magnificent marine mammals, they managed to elude me.

I went on a whale watching trip off the coast of Nova Scotia once, and saw—nothing. A similar experience in Alaska gave me a brief glimpse of a couple of humpbacks off in the distance, too far away to even snap a decent photo. I ventured off to Hawaii, Maine, Cape Cod, and British Columbia, hoping to hear the siren song of a whale, only to leave disappointed. “You can’t expect wild creatures to perform on cue,” the captains of the whale-watching tour ships would say.

*A friendly whale comes to say hello. Photo courtesy of B. Dadam*. *All other photos are copyright by Moxie Gardiner.*

Imagine my euphoria then, when a whale came up to my Zodiac boat off the coast of Baja California Sur earlier this month, and allowed me to touch it, pat its head, and run my hand gently over its barnacles. It was a moment of pure bliss.

Allow me to explain. Every year between the months of January and April, over 20,000 California gray whales make the 5,000-mile journey from the frigid waters of the Bering Sea to the warm waters of Magdalena Bay off the coast of Mexico, to frolic, mate, and give birth to their young. Think of it as a kind of Mexican resort for whales.

*The barnacles on gray whales are host-specific, and not found on other whale species.*

Some fifty years ago, fishermen in the small “panga” boats that ply these waters began to notice that the whales seemed to enjoy interacting with people. I had heard tales of friendly whales from a friend at the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration, but figured the chance of a face-to-face encounter with a whale was unlikely, given my past experience. Nonetheless, I was willing to try.

I did have a moment of introspection, however, before I signed up for this trip, sponsored by Washington & Lee University. Why, I asked myself, is the idea of a personal encounter with this wild, almost mythical creature so alluring? Is talking to the whales even the right thing to do? Wouldn’t this interaction make whales more trusting of people, when, given the dubious history of whaling, trust is perhaps not well-deserved?

When the opportunity to go on a National Geographic Expedition ship to commune with the whales arose, I could not pass it up. Not only was there a chance I would see a whale up close and personal, but I would also have the opportunity to discuss the whales and the behaviors I was observing with NatGeo photographers, naturalists, and undersea experts. I could learn some photography tips to boot.

*The whales would spy hop, raising their rostrum slowly out of the water, as if to sniff the air.*

I was not disappointed. The very first morning we went out in the pangas, we saw our first gray whales—lots of them. We saw whales showing off, “spy hopping” and doing their “Great White shark imitation,” and several came right alongside the boat. I reached for one, but missed by inches. I was elated, thinking that was as close as I would come.

Over the next several days we saw dozens of whales, to include mother whales with their darling, 2,000-pound newborn babies. The mothers were protective of their little ones, however, and kept their distance from our boats, much to our disappointment.

*Although a passable imitation of a Great White shark, this whale is actually showing us part of its tail.*

On the last trip of the last day, however, we headed out in Zodiac boats and hit the jackpot. A very friendly whale decided to hang out with us for quite a while.

She came up underneath our boat and gently rubbed her head along the bottom of it (she could have easily upended us, but she didn’t). She surfaced, deliberately poking her rostrum (nose) out of the water so we could touch her, and as I reached I nearly fell out of the boat. I ran my hand lovingly along her skin, which felt for the most part like a wet eggplant (as the NatGeo guides like to say) except for the barnacles. I lingered as long as I could. Connecting so intimately with this awe-inspiring cetacean was the thrill of a lifetime.

*Her skin felt like a smooth, wet eggplant.*

The whale seemed to be enjoying herself, and after a while, our guide said “we need to stop hogging the whale and let others have a turn.” He started the small engine and she turned, and by way of parting, sent up a huge geyser of water (called a whale blow). It quickly became obvious that it wasn’t just water. It was more like the whale was blowing its nose, sending up a spray filled with mucus and oil. My companions and I looked at each other and laughed. We were covered in slime and loving it.

*The whale seemed to like rubbing its head under the bottom of the Zodiac boat.*

*Many of us got to see a “whale blow,” up close and personal.*

What is it about interacting with a wild creature that makes it such a magical, memorable experience? Perhaps it is because we know these encounters require a great deal of trust between human and animal. It is hard to imagine why they would be drawn to us, and of what benefit it might be to them. Maybe we will never know and it is the mystery of it that captures our imagination. All I know is that my moment of personal connection with a whale was a great honor. I can only hope she felt the same.

Do you have a fondness for whales? Would you enjoy an experience like this? Have you had a similar experience with another wild creature? I would love to hear your stories in the comment section, below.

Moxie Gardiner is a writer and gardener who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.

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