nature – Laurie Apgar Chandler

Embracing hope

Chipmunk (2)

Wow, do I even remember how to write a blog post? I discover that I’m a little rusty on the logistics – navigating WordPress, ensuring the post stays in draft form until I’m ready to publish, transferring photos from my fancy new iPhone XR, but I figure it out.

All these months, I have been “blogging,” but just in my mind. A thought comes, perhaps I even jot a few notes, or snap a picture, but that is all. Always, I search for the perfect block of time, the most creative frame of mind, a window where blogging will not keep me from finishing my almost-finished book.

March 23rd is a new day.

Yesterday was the 11th anniversary of the loss of my husband Chris. Today is the 11th anniversary of forging onward, of choosing hope, of the start of a new life that has brought unanticipated blessings. In the Bible’s King James Version, Hebrews 11:1 reads,

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

Thanks to a conversation with a reader at one of my author events last year, this quote opens chapter 9 of the new book. I love the process of searching for quotes, a mosaic of words that both touch me and add depth to my writing. In chapter 9, a chance encounter at Stair Falls on the Penobscot River’s East Branch introduces two new characters who become, for me, evidence of faith fulfilled.

This day, as we embark on uncharted waters, as I did 11 years ago, let us choose hope.

Let us intentionally search for it in the everyday life that continues to surround us. I will look most fervently in nature, where yesterday I took refuge in a sheltered nook, silent, warmed by the spring sun’s rays. Focusing on gratitude replacing fear, I shut my eyes until I heard a scurry of dry, papery leaves. A chipmunk sprang up on the old stone wall. Alert, vibrant in the glow of the afternoon sun, which shone pink through his tiny ears.

I had found my hope for another day. May you find it, too. In conversation with a friend. In freshly baked bread, enduring music, well-stacked firewood, or garden plans. In a news story of teachers sewing masks at home. Embrace hope, my friends, and take care!

May you find fireplace birds

Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.
Dr. Suess

We christened them the “fireplace birds,” but of course they had another name. In those shortening days toward the end of August 2009, the Allagash was a quiet place. As Dad and I canoed from Umsaskis Bridge to Michaud Farm, the cool mornings and chilly swimming were more than compensated for by moose heavy with antlers and the beautiful solitude of the river.

Our cheeky friends first visited us at Lock Dam. Hopping contentedly among the ashes of the fire pit, focused on pecking who knows what, they were surprisingly tame. The colorful male and his drab partner were a species new to us. Dad and I love our birds, especially new ones, and felt their presence yet another gift of the late summer wilderness. Imagine our surprise, the next evening, when we discovered two more in the Outlet campsite on Round Pond.

Dad and I will never forget those birds, or the midnight stampede of a moose through our campsite and down into the river with a mighty splash, or our first otter family in the Musquacook Deadwater. A journey is so much more than the destination. One of my hopes for this summer is to absorb the experience, treasure the moments. And which parts will live on in my stories, in the memories of my heart? I don’t know, of course. But if you ask me why I will live on tuna and granola, portaging in the pouring rain and paddling into the wind, with sweat and bugs my closest friends, I go because of the fireplace birds, whatever they will be.

Oh, that’s right, you would like to know what those birds were, right? White-winged Crossbills, Loxia leucoptera, a finch that feeds almost exclusively on spruce and tamarack seeds, eating up to 3,000 in a single day!

The slow road home

Coming home last Sunday, I took the scenic route. Somehow my GPS knew that I had some time for exploring. (For an instrument so obsessed with the word “recalculating,” it is still pretty smart.) This is the Martin Bridge, a covered bridge built in 1890 on a Vermont farm. It is the last privately-constructed covered bridge in existence in the state and was designed to be especially tall to accommodate wagons piled high with loose hay. Feeling the need to stretch my legs, I wandered the property, found an old dump, and saw lots of red-winged blackbirds. The prize, though, was a bobolink. It looked vaguely familiar, but I had to consult the bird book at home to learn its name.

God in Nature’s Song, a poem

Oh, how I long for spring. Every inch of brown and muddy earth seems a victory, wrestled back from the tenacious hold of winter. The mud may suck and clutch at the soles of my wellies, but at least it isn’t frozen, at least not on the sunny afternoons. I will ignore today’s weather forecast, which shows snow of varying amounts on five upcoming days!

I’m back on the lake for a time, caring for my dog and cat friends. Here I will watch the ice as its character changes, until finally it will be gone. The kayak rides promisingly on top of my RAV4. Paddles, PFD, seat, are all handy in the back. It won’t be long.

While we’re waiting, here’s a poem I wrote on another early spring morning…

God in Nature’s Song

Tendrils of rosy mist swirl in tantalizing morning dance,

as God hints,

Beech leaves rattle, delicately breaking winter’s icy silence,

as God whispers,

Spires of deepest feathery green climb the endless azure sky,

as God beckons,

Raindrops drop a gentle soothing patter on an unnamed lake,

as God sympathizes,

Lady slippers shyly bow, delicately framed in darkest brown,

as God rejoices,

And those who truly listen, pause in understanding wonder,

as God speaks.

Inspired by Romans 1:20 – Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made.