Priscilla Stuckey - Kissed by a Fox: And Other Stories of Friendship in Nature

Kissed by a Fox

Kissed by a Fox

AND OTHER STORIES OF
FRIENDSHIP IN NATURE

Priscilla Stuckey

COUNTERPOINT
BERKELEY

Copyright 2012 Priscilla Stuckey

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

ISBN: 978-1-61902-126-6

Cover Design by Ann Weinstock

Interior design by meganjonesdesign.com

COUNTERPOINT

1919 Fifth Street

Berkeley, CA 94710

www.counterpointpress.com

Distributed by Publishers Group West

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

For the Earth

every one of us

CONTENTS

The speech of water, the speech of earth, and the speech of mud
Are heard by those who listen with the heart.

RUMI, MASNAVI

We are most ourselves when we are most intimate with the rivers and mountains and woodlands, with the sun and the moon and the stars in the heavens; when we are most intimate with the air we breathe, the Earth that supports us, the soil that grows our food, with the meadows in bloom. We belong here. Our home is here.

THOMAS BERRY, THE SACRED UNIVERSE

When our beliefs settle down to sleep and the streetlights come on, if we said matter was holy, would we then love and be joyous?

LINDA HOGAN,
THE WOMAN WHO WATCHES OVER THE WORLD

Did the wind use to cry, and the hills shout forth praise? Now speech has perished from among the lifeless things of earth, and living things say very little to very few.

ANNIE DILLARD, TEACHING A STONE TO TALK

M IDNIGHT BLUE WATER rested at the horizon under a brightening sky, framing shafts of pine and fir at shores edge. Here on the southern tip of Lopez Island, off the coast of Seattle, the dawn air was cool and still, the only sound a few songbirds calling far away. I headed across the needle-packed yard toward a clump of pines. The bald eagle nest was right over there, Anya had said; shed seen the chicks fledging just days ago, and they couldnt be far away now.

I turned my binoculars toward the pines, eager to spot that huge platform of sticks three to five feet across. Eagles use the same structure year after year, weaving in more and more sticks for support until the whole can weigh a ton or more. Surely a nest the size of a mattress should be easy to find! I scanned the trees in one direction. Nothing. Puzzled, I looked the other way. No nest anywhere in sight.

Soon my neck stiffened from the upward gaze. I lowered the glasses and headed across the thick carpet of pine needles. The eagles would have to show up soon. Anya had said they were here, so I might as well wait.

It was 1995, and Id met Anya just a few days earlier on a womens camping trip to Mount Rainier, a vacation from my too-quiet life in Oakland, California, where I lived alone writing a doctoral dissertation and editing books. A few years earlier, at thirty-five, Id undergone three severe lossesdeaths of both parents plus divorce after thirteen years of marriagefollowed too quickly by the end of a new relationship, and now I spent most days treading the waters of depression, withdrawn and silent. On the camping trip Anya had been almost as quiet. Each morning she would unroll her yoga mat a few feet away from the group and stretch silently through her poses. Wed hardly said a word to each other. Yet on the last day, when the group gathered on soft emerald grass next to a tiny ripple of creek to share what wed gained from the trip, and I said Id loved every minute of it but stillin this prime bald eagle countryhadnt seen an eagle, Anya had urged me to follow her home. Her guest room was really a workout room, but I was welcome to unroll my sleeping bag there for a couple of nights and search for eagles by day.

Climbing now over rocks near the waters edge, I gazed toward the deep blue of the sea. No eagles. I wondered how to find them. The thought occurred: Why dont you call them? While meditating recently, Id seen trees and birds in my minds eye, like watchful presences, but that was meditation, not real life. Birds dont just come when you call. True, my skeptical biologist friend Meredith, who had taught me birding, had told me how, during a bewildering time, shed gone to the beach and asked for an osprey to appear. Although it was not the season for osprey, and they were fairly rare at that beach, within minutes an osprey had soared high overhead. Nice coincidence, Id thought, but no rational evidence suggested that birds could hear or respond.

Still, I was going to be here only until tomorrow, so there was no time to waste.

I sat down on a soft bed of pine needles, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. Inside, thoughts ran wild: This is silly... Theyll never show up... Might work for other people, not you. I took another deep breath and settled into my body again, feeling alive in my arms, in my legs and feet. Noticing sensations was feeling, not thinkinga good way to turn off mental chatter.

I brought to mind a picture of a bald eagle: that white head, fierce yellow eyes, and hooked beak; the dark body, white tail, and powerful talons that could make off with a fish nearly half the birds size. Please, I spoke mentally to the image, Id really like to see you. Is it possible for you to hear me?

In the background I could hear another voice: Yeah, sure, rightnow youre praying to birds? Talking to someone you cant see, who may not even be there?

I breathed again. Im only going to be here today and part of tomorrow. Ive seen lots of birds but never bald eagles. Please let me catch a glimpse of you. I remained quiet for a few moments, eyes closed.

There was no more to do. I opened my eyes. The sun was far above the horizon now. I sat in its midmorning warmth gazing quietly at pines. How long do you wait for an eagle to come when you call?

If youre impatient like me, not very long. A minute ticked by, then two, then five. Nothing happened.

Trying not to notice a corner of disappointment, I stood up and headed toward the bike shop across the way. My chances of seeing eagles would increasewouldnt they?if I covered the island. I picked out a bicycle and at the caf next door stocked up with a sandwich, water, and an apple. Map in hand, new Lopez Island visor peeking out from under my bike helmet, I headed out.

The road I chose took me inland, and soon I was engulfed by peaceful summer-gold fields stretching to the horizon, the sea no longer visible beyond their gentle undulations. Cars passed at a leisurely rate, each driver in turn lifting an index fingernot four fingers, not a palm, just an index fingerto greet me. Shyly I waved back, unaccustomed after a decade of urban life to waving at strangers. I might have been back in the rural Ohio of my childhood.

I covered the length of the island, stopping for lunch along a sand spit stretching across a still lagoon, then heading inland again for more miles of quiet fields. Now and then I scanned the horizon for the telltale sign of black wings spread wider than a hawks and flattened out horizontally from the body, not lifted in a V like a vultures. I saw golden grain and craggy cliffs with pine trees silhouetted black against the blue sound, but I saw no eagles wings.

By late afternoon my bottom was sore from the thick denim seam in my jeansI hadnt packed biking shortsand my leg muscles were yelping. Drinking the last of my water, I worried that I wouldnt get back to my sleeping bag before dropping from exhaustion.