The View from Here: a tentative return

And in making her choice, the squirrel – generous squirrel – has granted me the opportunity to join her at her table.

This morning I watched a squirrel, sleek and plump.  The squirrel and I are at eye level. We are each intent upon breakfast: I, dallying safe in my warm kitchen in our inverted home built from bricks and glass, cocooned and disconnected from what it really means to be in the throes of life, and he, moving freely in a habitat more suited to his wild and precious nature where every sight, sound and smell weaves a story in his brain about how to survive.  He is intent on his task and seemingly oblivious to my silent presence, tidied away behind the glass and safely distanced from those sensory signals that shout ‘danger’.

Around him – or her, but surely not “it” – the rain and the wind compete against each other, raging loud and long.  The wind is winning; the rain is tossed and thrown about helpless, in thrall to the wild eddies and whirling currents.  It is particularly strong today, the wind, but coming from the south-west, which affords us some protection, nestled as we are under the lip of a north-facing valley slope.  The squirrel seems inured to the elements.  The squirrel – wise squirrel – has chosen well this morning.  The steep bank immediately at the back of our house is perhaps the most protected site available for her repast.  And in making her choice, the squirrel – generous squirrel – has granted me the opportunity to join her at her table.

She scrabbles with her delicate paws in the damp, root-ridden earth which covers the slate which comprises the bank.  Her movements are fleet and purposeful; just a few moments scritching and scratching and she has unearthed her first course, deposited there perhaps when autumn was vivid and abundant and winter no more than a dark and frosty whisper in the dawn.

A shimmy up a slender sapling situated immediately in front of my window and she settles into a fork in the fledgling branches, transfers her bounty from her jaws to her paws and gnaws fast and furious.  Her mouth moves with speed and economy.  I watch as the paws – surely as dextrous and delicate as human hands, so perfectly matched as they are to their purpose – skilfully turn the morsel (perhaps half an acorn?) at a pace perfectly attuned to the fast-working teeth.  Several rotations and paws are empty, stomach a little fuller.  Down the trunk we go.

So sheltered is this spot that the sapling, supple though it is, scarcely sways in the face of the gale.  The squirrel returns to her stash; exhumes another titbit and as each site is emptied, moves to another and another, always finding treasure at every spot in which she scrabbles, memory never failing.  Each time, the unearthed delicacy is carried up the smooth grey bark of the young tree to that same fork, perfectly level with my gaze.  I am enchanted.

Later, I recall that last summer I had mentally marked this sapling to be removed.  Its position on this steep bank is ill-suited.  Ill-suited to what?  For now I know better.  Who am I to disturb this eye-level restaurant?  The sapling will stand another summer at least.  And hopefully the squirrel and I will share another silent meeting before the leaves once again clothe the tree and the bank once again is swathed in summer secrecy.

mathew-schwartz-622899-unsplash

 

It’s been a long while since I opened this dusty and neglected ‘Corner’, a space which has frequently been the repository for those moments when time and life step aside and reflection and creativity creep to the fore.  But her recent passing caused me to listen just yesterday, to a rare and engrossing interview with the late Mary Oliver.  And that in turn, made it easy, on this mild and wild February day to answer the question she so famously posed and which underpins a lot of what I believe this blog to be about:

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

“Today, a squirrel and I shared breakfast.”

(Photo by Mathew Schwartz on Unsplash)

19 thoughts on “The View from Here: a tentative return”

  1. Non-native species and ‘rodent’ status apart, squirrels are so gorgeous, it’s difficult to resist them. The Botanic Gardens in Glasgow has lots of them and they are as bold as brass. You can hand-feed some of them.

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  2. Ahh, dearest Sandra. I am so delighted to read this post. My squirrel friends on this side of the pond are a treat to watch as I begin my day.

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  5. I miss you! Your words are also so serene. Was thinking of you today, and now here you are. Welcome back for however long you are able. Hugs!

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  6. The breakfast with the squirrel was a precious fruit of your serendipitous decision to not remove the sapling. You have painted the story so well with your words that I could feel a whiff of the elements on my face even as your partner in breakfast nibbled away busily.

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  8. Spring is indeed on it’s most delightful way Sandra, with your lovely words and distinctive voice. A wake up call to us all.
    Our squirrel has rewarded us most handsomely this year too- 7 baby hazel bushes growing under the apple trees, the result of an overstocked larder at some time past. They have been transplanted into various parts of the hedgerow, where they will be enjoyed by us and provide food for future generations of squirrels, so completing the circle.xxx

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  9. Ah, you’re back, and a lovely, touching and evocative piece. Please keep posting. And I’ve kept on meaning to tell you – that Mary Oliver quote which features on your blog is written large on my daughter’s kitchen notice board, and has been there for some time. Great minds!

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  11. It’s great to hear from you, Sandra – what a beautifully composed post. And thank you also for that link to the Mary Oliver interview, which I look forward to listening to.

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  14. Hallo Sandra – so lovely to find you posting again. Your writing about your shared breakfast-time with the squirrel is enchanting and beautifully observed. I felt that I was by your side at the window. Thanks also for the link to the Mary Oliver interview, which I look forward to listening to.

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  15. So lovely to have you back, Sandra, it’s not quite the same without your beautifully detailed, precise and gentle observations of nature. What a wonderful host you are to your squirrel…

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