My First Words

According to my mother, my very first words came in sentence form: "Don't put my big blue dog on the brown sofa." Amazing verbal child!

Well, it's not like I collected adjectives. That stuffed dog was always called "the big blue dog," and the couch was "the brown sofa." What would've been truly amazing is if I'd said, "Don't put my large, furry dog on the high sofa."

Plus I was probably talking before that. My mother at age 27 already had a 6-year-old, a 5-year-old, and a 4-year-old. Who in that situation has time to listen to the toddler? I was probably already entertaining myself, listening, biding my time. And my time to speak up has always been on behalf of creatures who can't speak for themselves...

What's in a Name?

I remember the moment when I found it in my grandmother's Field Guide to Western Birds. We had driven from Los Angeles, California to Salem, Oregon for a visit. I don't remember if we slept in the van at rest stops, or if we could afford to stop in Travelodges that trip. I was 9.

The book had the exact picture of a bold blue bird I recognized, with its brown cape, white necklace and eyebrows, the bird that would flick its tail and make a loud, harsh "Krrreck!" call: California Jay, the caption read. I can't explain what knowing that name meant to me (but I'll try)--to know that somebody else besides this lonely kid had noticed a bird like that, had cared. Suddenly I didn't feel so lonely. I was part of a larger world, one that included animals and people who cared about animals. Knowing its name made my relationship with the bird real somehow.

It began a lifelong interest in birdwatching and the natural world. I call myself a naturalist, but I never became a biologist--I don't like dissecting creatures, don't even want to band birds or remove eggs. That feels too invasive. Knowing the names, on the other hand, feels respectful. I loved learning the classifications: phyla, genera, the meaning of the Latin names.

Our names for ourselves, of course, generally seem more respectful than the names outsiders give us: kanaka maoli, Hawaiians call themselves, "real people," while Europeans are haole, which may mean "no breath," perhaps because the first ones they met seemed so sickly and pale. I wonder what the jays call themselves. Nowadays we call the species formerly known as California Jay, "Scrub Jay." Their name for themselves has got to be better than that.

A woman I was talking to in a social setting said she'd seen two blue birds that morning. Quickly another woman tried to determine whether it was a Steller's Jay (with a crest) or a Scrub Jay (just normal). Why did the search for the name seem to take the magic away, in this case? Here the naming felt like appropriation, like we could name the bird and say, yes, we know all about this bird; have even dissected one. If the bird in question remains a blue bird on a fine spring day, somehow it retains its freedom, wildness, magic.

Whatever your name, you blue bird, California Jay, Scrub Jay, collection of bird-generated sounds you call yourself, you--individually and collectively--flew free before me to show me the way, and for that I thank you.

Bird's-Eye View

ALCATRAZ--This time I didn't take the boat to the island; I flew. In fact, Alcatraz is where I first learned to fly, but I don't remember that. (Well? Do you remember learning to walk?) What you don't forget is how to do it. Seems like I've always known how to glide above the ocean, how to land on the rail of a boat, how to snatch people food when they aren't looking. But if I read the ring on my leg right, I'm only four years old. I say "only" because most of you people reading this are probably older. For me, though, it means I can watch my own babies learn to fly now.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. First I've got to get my own territory. That'll be tough, as a newcomer. Everyone's got old claims. No one wants to give up the spot where they raised their children seven years in a row. Still, how am I to know? I haven't been back to the old breeding grounds till now, at least not this time of year, when everyone's getting possessive. You people think you're so funny, putting words in our mouths in Finding Nemo: "Mine! Mine!" Yeah, we're territorial, we're possessive, but who are you to talk, with your big private enclosed, locked nests with fences around them? You may not say "Mine! Mine!" when you get your paycheck, but who gets a piece of it besides your family? That's all I'm sayin'...

So I'll be stakin' my claim to a piece of the rock, hoping a female will like my real estate, and hoping I like a female who likes my real estate, 'cause once we've found a partner, we mate for life, Baby. Okay, there's like a 5% divorce rate, but I don't plan on becoming one of those statistics. Me and my gull, we'll be copilot forever, ya know what I'm sayin'?

Not that we'll actually fly together, because we'll have responsibilities right away. I'll go out and get some fish while she's sitting on the eggs, and she'll do the same when I'm taking a turn. We'll have our family to think about.

And we won't want you lot around. Can't help it that Alcatraz gets a lot of visitors every day, but just stay out of the nursery, will you? Is that too much to ask? I heard some lady ask a park guide if we were "taking over the place." Huh. Who was here first? I ask you. You wanna know the reason we like raising the kids on Alcatraz in spite of all the grief you give us? No fresh water. That's right. That's the whole reason. Angel Island, it has water. And that means it has predators. Raccoons would just love to bite into our eggs. At least we've got rangers sticking up for us on Alcatraz. Maybe some of you people were birds once yourselves--you believe in reincarnation? Do you ever have dream memories of soaring above blue water? See, I think I was one o' you once. I still remember your lingo. Or maybe it's all the people food I've snatched. You are what you eat. Whatever. Gotta go take care of that real estate business.

My Perfect Volunteer Job

SAN FRANCISCO-- but this is a reminiscence about when I lived in
BREMEN--In 2004 I went to see a counselor for foreign women. I wanted her help finding the perfect volunteer job. When she found out about my environmental education background, she had an idea: "Why don't we call the city farm? They have a program teaching the children about animals."

Well, I thought about it and decided that wasn't really what I had in mind. I didn't have any experience working with kids, and as a vegetarian, I wasn't keen on teaching them, "This is a pig. It's for Easter dinner..." I just cared more about wild animals anyway.

So I drummed up my best German to try to explain all this. She said, "Wendy, don't do anything you don't want to do! Just tell me what you're interested in." I asked her to call the Naturschutzbund, a wildlife protection organization. She did so, asked if they could use volunteers.

"Wonderful!" said Soenke Hofmann of the Naturschutzbund. "We could really use volunteer counselors for our children's farm camp."

Lord's Prayer Possibilities

SAN FRANCISCO--Just wondering... How would our culture be different if we allowed this possibility?:
Our Mother who art in heaven,
Hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done
On Earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread
And forgive us our debts
As we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation
But deliver us from evil,
For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.
Amen.

Or what about this version?:
Divine force, residing within me,
May I honor You.
Your kingdom come,
Your will be done
In the outer world
As on the spiritual plane.
Provide for my daily needs today
And forgive me my mistakes
As I forgive the mistakes others make that seem to harm me.
Guide me along my highest path
And deliver me from my baser self,
For to You--Divine Force within me, within All--
belong the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever.
Let it be so.

April 15 is DA VINCI DAY

SAN FRANCISCO--Forget about "Tax Day." I declare Saturday, April 15, Da Vinci Day, for Leonardo da Vinci was born on Saturday, April 15, in the year 1452. On Da Vinci Day, banks and businesses close, but museums do not! To celebrate Da Vinci Day properly, one can
*write in a journal
*draw
*design something, such as a painting, sculpture, or flying machine
*go to a museum
*conduct a science experiment
*look at replicas of da Vinci's work
*smile like the Mona Lisa
*eat vegetarian Italian food
*think!
*discuss your day and your philosophy of life over wine or chocolate

And a Dazzling Da Vinci Day to all!

My Sister the Tree

SAN FRANCISCO--Let me describe my little sister, the flowering fruit tree: she seems steady, grounded, not haughty or tall, with a young delicateness about her. She is just beginning to show her blossoms, no longer buds, but not nearly fruit. She has a wisdom about her--an age shown by the lichens on her bark--but she is pure and cleansed by many rains. She loves her solitary world, yet welcomes twittering flocks of tiny birds into her branches, who help free her from parasites that would lodge in her. She stands deeply rooted and her head doesn't reach the clouds, but her twigs and leaves, like fine hair, give her a delicate, elegant halo-like crown, the sign of a dreamer. I love this little tree, this strong sister. She has not yet learned how to dance, but she knows the grace of stillness.

Earthquake Stories

SAN FRANCISCO--As the 100th anniversary of the Great Earthquake and Fire of 1906 approaches, I reminisce about earthquakes I once knew. I grew up in L.A., so I've been in earthquakes but never too close to the epicenter.

One time an earthquake hit while I was driving--I was on the freeway driving to school, and I was sleepy like I always was during college, sleep-deprived. The (Whittier) earthquake hit, and the steering wheel jerked back and forth in my hands. I thought I had a flat tire. I got off at my off-ramp and I noticed someone else pulled off to the side checking his tires. But the car seemed fine. Then I was waiting at a stoplight, and an aftershock hit. The car started shaking. "There is really something wrong with my car!" I thought. Then it was back to normal. I get to school, go to class, and the teacher's late. "Maybe it's because of the earthquake," the other students say. "Earthquake? What earthquake?" I ask.

Another time, when I was housesitting for a friend in Santa Barbara, I had a first date with a guy, watched a video or something, and he was from Boston, so I asked him if he'd ever experienced an earthquake. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I was at a party, a first date with my last girlfriend, so we used to joke that the earth moved when we met." The next day, early in the morning, there's an earthquake (the Northridge one) that knocks out all the power in the city. I call him up: "Do you always have this effect on women?"