Speaking of Foxes

Yesterday morning the turkeys walked across our snow-covered lawn. This morning, a fox.

Seconds before, our deck had been full of squirrels scavenging for sunflower seeds. They disappeared. I walked into the kitchen just in time to shout "Fox!" to Bill at the kitchen table.

The fox was in no hurry, so i fumbled with my smartphone-camera and snapped a couple of photos before the fox disappeared into the shadows of the forest.

If we are foxy in our meditation, we can catch those dagnabbit distractions before they lead us into completely forgetting our meditation object.

One possibility is to open the lens of awareness wide. The squirrels who disappeared had wide-open awareness, which told them to skedaddle because danger was afoot.

With wide-open awareness, we can catch the distraction before it catches us. Otherwise, our mind goes trotting off into the woods.

Turkeys Trudging through the Snow

Back in December, we had 30 turkeys walking through our yard every day. But where did they go after the first heavy snowfall?

One neighbor saw 7 of them. Another neighbor saw a lot of fox tracks. Oh-oh, the neighbors thought.

I've seen a fox catch a chicken in mid-air. Stunning. But a full-grown turkey seems a bit large for a fox to wrestle with.

This morning we saw 20 turkeys walking single file through the snow on the paths near our house. That means 10 are missing in action. Sigh.

Many years ago, a 74-year-old woman told me, "I feel like i'm on a battlefield. All around me, people are dropping. I don't know why i'm still standing."

I've reached the time of life where a friend dies every month or so.

The turkeys form a procession as they trudge through the snow.

Not Too Much Harvest This Year

by Guest Blogger, Laura Evans

Not too much harvest to worry about this year—alas. Something—maybe moles? Or voles?—found even onions tasty, munching on them from underneath. The onion would look nice and plump with its papery gold-brown top showing above ground, waiting for its stalks to flop over, indicating readiness for pulling. Then when you'd pull it, it would seem to fly out of the ground with no effort on your part, and you realized it was a trick: no roots and no onion left at all. As for other things, some never germinated or were devoured in infancy. Some seedlings were eaten early by rabbits, which we'd never had before in our 35 years of hillside gardening.

Birds, as always, loved the red “razzles,” but many got moldy before quite ripening. Chipmunks enjoyed the cherry tomatoes. I watched a squirrel delighting in our plump blackberries. The deer greatly appreciated our kale and the tops of tomato plants. Blight and tomato hornworms also joined in the tomato decimation. Weeks of rain were part of the picture too. So, we got little or no cukes, cabbage, broccoli, or squash (summer or winter).

Then there are (were) the apples. Doug comes in the door with deep red ones from the biggest tree—all five held easily in his cupped hands. I look up from chopping store-bought veggies as he announces, “Well, here's the Jonathan crop for this year.” He sets the gnarled knobby little things on the counter. Horrified at first, I grew fond of them over a few days, finding them humorous and cute—like the shrunken little old heads of apple dolls—no drying needed.

Last year, the apples did okay, and a year or two before that, even though we don't spray them, the branches were groaning under the weight of big flawless fruit. Pears too, that year; same thing. And peaches.

This year, the small seckel pears were plentiful and coming along until, after a few days away, we came back to find them just not there. Along with the hordes of squirrels, we think a gray fox participated in the feast. We saw it soon after, apparently looking through the grass below the tree for any it might have missed. (Unlike their red fox cousins, they can climb trees.) 

I love seckel pears best of all, but the glimpses of that gray fox almost made up for the losses.

Laura Evans is memoir writer and an early childhood educator who lives with her gardening husband in Vermont.

Change

Two days ago, i was feeding carrot sticks to ostriches and camels at Philip's Animal Garden in Aruba. Today, a friend sends me a photo of a fox walking across her snowy backyard.

Change. A big change. From 80 degrees every day in Aruba to 20 degrees her at home in the North Country. It's all in constant flux.

Sometimes, i play a mental game with myself. Could i commit Aruba to memory? But which moment is Aruba? It's impossible to disentangle any one moment from the whole experience of Aruba.

My tropical vacation is gone. Gone. Memories linger, of course. My skin is tanned. Another friend tells me i look deeply rested.

Delicious change.

My Chipmunk Life

Last evening, our group of meditation teachers talked about what we were doing, if anything, regarding fear in our various communities. Activist groups have arisen in some practice communities, and other communities aren't talking about the great divide since that's not their main message.

One of my more political friends talked about what is going on on college campuses, and i could feel fear begin to zing around in my body. Oh, no, i thought. I'll wake up in the middle of the night with a ruminating mind if i don't fully experience this fear right now.

An hour later, as i was lying in bed, i thought about all the cute chipmunks that are darting around these New England stone walls, chasing each other, and diving into their holes under the lilac bushes. A mother fox with 5 kits has a den in the stone wall a hundred feet away. The chipmunks don't appear to be afraid. They are simply living their chipmunk lives. Can i live my chipmunk life?

And then, i fell asleep.

Fox Tracks in the Snow

Walking down the lightly-snowed road to morning meditation group at my neighbor's house this morning, i followed fox tracks. First she walked on one side of the road, then the other, then she switched again. She veered off into another neighbor's driveway. But a few hundred feet later, as i turned right, here came another straight line of fox tracks up the road, which also turned into the meditation neighbor's long driveway. These tracks veered off into the woods, making a beeline for my neighbor's compost.

When i returned home after meditation, i followed "my" fox tracks directly to my compost pile, where it suddenly looked like a fox trot party had happened last night. Broccoli stems and carrot peelings, onion skins and a coffee filter inside the compost bin didn't look that appetizing to me. I wonder what the fox was after? It did not look like the fox had jumped into the pile as a large dog will sometimes do. I remain puzzled as to what they are eating, although i can understand that the foxes are cold and hungry at this time of year.

What are we hungry for? And how far will we travel to find it?

When the ordinary food of our busy daily lives no longer sustains our heart, what kind of soul food can we find? And where can we find it?

I am fed by the teachings of the Buddha. And you? What is your "soul" food?