I suspect by this stage of our lives we each know what we need to do, whether it is for the health of our body, our mind or our spirit, but how often do we actually do what we most need?
In recent posts I mentioned the retreat I co-facilitated recently. I truly love preparing for and offering retreats, but they require excessive amounts of time and energy, and at the end of a retreat I am tired mentally and physically. Spiritually, I feel almost too full. Absorbed by people's stories and challenges. Inspired by and eager to integrate the wisdom shared, but how?
My normal mode of operation when making a transition from one major activity or event to whatever is next is to clean, to sort and organize. When returning from a vacation, for example, I immediately unpack. Suitcases are returned to storage and laundry is started. Mail is sorted and if early enough in the day, I make a trip to the grocery store for the basics. Re-entry is not delayed.
When something has required time and attention and lots of preparation and when other projects and even ordinary tasks have needed to be set aside, I am usually eager to do whatever it takes to return my normal routine. I assumed I would follow that usual plan of action after the retreat, but I surprised myself.
I got as far as unloading all my retreat stuff from the car into the entry of the house, but then there they sat. I made no further efforts to reshelve the books, to file the papers or return the various props used throughout the day to their proper spots. I left it all in a pile right inside the door. I decided I could deal with it another day.
I knew what I needed was time to empty, to make room for what was most essential, to restore energy. I knew what would help me bridge the recent time of intense activity and interaction and would return me to equilibrium. I needed to see Big Water. I needed to hear Big Water.
Therefore, the day after the retreat Bruce and I drove north to Duluth and along the North Shore of Lake Superior toward Split Rock Lighthouse. I didn't have a list of sights to see or things to do. I did no research, except to see what the weather forecast would be. We had no real plan, but just headed north. Towards Big Water.
Each time we stopped to take in the view I could feel a shift inside my body. I started to empty and make room for some needed spaciousness. As the waves landed on the shore and then retreated back out beyond where I could see, I felt the wrinkles on my forehead, and even the ones I imagine on my heart, disappear. I experienced a smoothness, a lightening. I could feel the beginnings of a rhythmic flow again.
By the time we returned home, I was awake once again.
I had resisted what seemed most logical and instead responded to what my soul told me I most needed to do.
I realize it isn't always possible to do the one thing you feel would be most beneficial for your spirit, but more than likely there is something that would be a good stand-in. If I hadn't been able to take a full day for my soul or if I didn't have access to Big Water, which I have learned over the years is healing and inspiring for me, I hope I would have spent time meditating and writing in my journal, my two main spiritual practices. I hope I would have taken a longer than usual walk or spent time coloring and listening to music.
I know what I need at those kinds of overflowing time, and this time I allowed myself to actually respond to that need.
An Invitation
Do you know what restores you? How often do you actually do what you most need? I would love to know.
I don't have a Bucket List, for to me such a list implies doing something for the sake of having done it. Check--did that. Check--did that one, too. But that's just me. However, there are places I would love to visit and things I would love to experience, feeling that in someway those places and events would resonate with my soul. This past weekend was one of those opportunities, something I have wanted to experience for several years-- a chance to see the sandhill cranes as they rested and refueled in Nebraska's Platte River Valley during their spring migration from Northern Mexico and Texas to their breeding grounds in Canada, Alaska, and Siberia. Thousands of them. As many as 60,000 in one area alone during March and early April.
A Few Facts
According to a brochure from one of the nature centers near Kearney, Nebraska, sandhill cranes have come to that area of Nebraska for centuries. In fact, fossils of sandhill crane wing bones dating back nine million years have been discovered in Nebraska. Sandhill cranes are considered living dinosaurs.
They come to this area because of the abundance of waste grain in corn fields which allows them to build up depleted fat reserves needed for migration. Also, the Platte River is narrow and shallow with sandbars that provide safety for them at night or as the brochure says "secluded loafing areas for rest, bathing, and courting." The cranes enjoy their R&R in the area for about three weeks.
Like all cranes, sandhill cranes mate for life, and the females typically lay two eggs per year but usually only one chick survives the first year. A group of cranes is called a sedge or a siege, according to our Google expert, granddaughter Maren who was with us on this trip.
Our Journey
Our home in Madison was near a nature preserve, Pheasant Run Conservatory, which was home to many sandhill cranes, and most non-winter mornings when I went for a walk I could hear their haunting, other-worldly call. We often saw them in the skies or gathered in corn fields or along Pheasant Creek. For some reason it was always thrilling. I could feel an inner vibration when I saw or heard them and hoped someday to see them in even larger numbers.
This was the year to do just that. Bruce's sister Sue, who lives in Omaha and is an avid photographer, invited us to make the trip with her. We packed our binoculars and boots and umbrellas in case of wet weather, and I did some internet searches about where to go and what to expect. We invited Maren to join us since she was on spring break and we headed to Nebraska.
The first time we saw masses of cranes in the air we all let out our own version of a whoop. I must admit there had been some momentary trepidation --what if we don't see any or if we only see a few? Well, from that moment on we saw cranes everywhere --on the ground and in the air. We stopped along country roads, and Sue took lots of photographs (Thanks, Sue!), and the rest of us marveled at how many there were, clustered in the fields snacking on all the leftover corn. Oh, and by the way, we certainly weren't the only ones--everywhere we went, including the nature centers we visited to learn more, we saw other crane watchers, just as dazzled by the sights as we were.
In the evening at dusk the sandhills vacate the fields and bunch together on sandbars in the Platte River, a stunning and astonishing sight we were told, and we certainly wanted to experience that. The first night we went to a state park we had seen on a map as a good viewing sight and stood on a bridge over the water, along with a hundred or so other hopeful souls. As the sun set, we saw group after group of cranes fly above us, but none landed where we were. Cameras were ready, and for the most part the expectant crowd was hushed as if in a place of worship. We were waiting for the ritual to begin.
Some, however, expressed irritation that what was supposed to happen didn't. One person reminded those of us around her that dusk was scheduled for 7:47 and the sandhills should be here by now. They were there, but just not landing there. I wondered what made her think cranes should be "on demand" similar to watching our favorite television shows whenever we want, "on demand."
Others seemed more interested in socializing, and we learned a lot about how a mother and her daughter happened to be in Nebraska, looking at grad school for the daughter. We heard about traffic and weather in the Washington DC area where they lived and how they didn't know anything about cranes (Duh!) but had heard this was something they should do as long as they were in the area. They seemed like friendly, bright people, but at the same time were not attuned to the reverence of the moment. I yearned for silence and needed to reach deep within to create my own sanctuary oblivious to the manmade distractions.
Yes, I would have loved to see the cranes swooping down to their nighttime monastery, but that was not to be. Eventually, we all left the bridge and hiked back to our cars. At least we saw them in silhouette against the night sky. A sight in itself to behold.
The Next Night
We studied the maps and inquired about other good viewing locations and off we went, grateful we had another chance. We gathered on another bridge, not quite as secluded, but where others had assembled, although fewer people and not as clustered. We began to see and hear the cranes lifting from nearby cornfields and we watched strings of them in the sky. Sue had wandered to another bridge close by and discovered a small group of cranes on a sandbar in the distance. We changed our position and were rewarded for our patience. String after string of cranes joined the first group on a sandbar. Each time there was adjustment of those who had already landed--the more the merrier they seemed to say. Nevermind that we were spying on them. They knew what to do.
The sun set and so did their haunting calls. Like a baby talking to itself in a crib, the birds quieted themselves as well. It is time to rest. It was not easy to pull myself away, even when I could no longer really see them. I had felt a sense of the liminal--moments of being in-between time. Not past. Not future or even present, but all time. Not here or there, but everywhere. This was a time outside the ordinary and part of something greater. I felt connected to the Universe, but at the same time so inconsequential in the bigger picture.
In a way this was a pilgrimage, for it was a time of engaging with life, letting life beyond my own being and the lives of those I love enter me. I felt wonder. I felt restored.
An Invitation
At what times in your life have you felt wonder. When have you felt out of time and place? I would love to know.
Photo credits: Sue Kelly
