Some months ago, I took one of my most favorite pictures of all time ... an anhinga sitting on top of a turtle who was trying to sun himself on a log. There are two pictures, one of the anhinga seemingly oblivious to invading the turtle's space and one where the anhinga appears to poke the turtle as if to say, "Ok, let's go, move along, got places to go, people to see."
The thing about this particular moment is that I almost missed it.
I tend to ignore anhingas. They're not the prettiest bird and here in Florida they're everywhere. I have had some fun taking pictures of them eating fish, but then the moment is ruined when I pull up the pictures and they're all blurry because the anhinga won't sit still when it's beating a fish to death.
Even its classic I-am-Batman pose, as it dries its wings, has grown old.
I see an anhinga, more likely than not, I'm going to keep on driving.
The day with the turtle, all I could see from the road was the anhinga on the log. I couldn't see the turtle. The only reason I stopped and took out my camera was because I knew that particular log. I stopped at that log almost every day because almost every day there were turtles sunning themselves on it. And even though I couldn't see the turtle initially that day--I could only see the anhinga--I knew there was a chance for a special moment there.
And I try not to pass up chances these days.
Today I was too busy with errands to venture out to anywhere new. And with my options limited and the Wetlands still closed, I opted for the familiar, for the spots I knew I could find something, if not a picture than at least a moment of peace, a moment of deep breaths.
I went first back to the parking lot across the street, near the park, where I had seen the American Kestrel the day before. Not only was he there, but he was sitting on top of the same lamppost where I had seen him last year.
No frog this time, but he watched me as I took a few cautious steps towards him. The other day, a man told me about an American Bittern in the reeds. He told me that if you just pretended like you didn't see the bittern, he would be fooled into thinking you weren't a threat and that he didn't have to hide.
I don't know if that works or not. Do birds really appreciate you trying to psyche them out? But as I approached the kestrel, I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me. No, I'm not here for you, I wanted my body language to say. Just taking a lazy afternoon walk. Pay no attention to me.
I got maybe twenty feet from the lamppost when he decided that was close enough and took off, a flurry of colorful blues and browns. I love the coloring of the kestrel. Part of me wants to paint a room in my condo those colors.
Next I drove to Hope, but my first loop around the church proved to be disappointing. It was, like yesterday, so quiet and still. Had the bobcats scared away all life?
But as I rounded the corner, I spotted an osprey high up in the tree. It's rare that I see them before I hear them. Even so high up in the tree, they don't let me get very close without calling out a warning.
This one was surveying the water even though he already had a fish pinned under his massive talons to the branch.
I tried faking him out as I did with the kestrel and the bittern, but he was smarter than that. I took a step and he cried. I took another step and he lifted his rear and shot me another warning. I was still fifty feet or so away so safe, but I took another step and he lifted his wings and flew off, fish still hooked.
It is good to have things in this world that we can count on. I know the kestrel lives across the street. I know ospreys and hawks like sitting high in the trees at Hope. I know I can walk outside right now and find an ibis or an anhinga or Sandhill Crane within seconds.
When I was a kid growing up in upstate New York, I knew I could count on deer in the fields off the highway. I knew there would always be raccoons or skunks in the compost pile in the backyard. I knew that the sun didn't tell me when it was time to come inside at night, it was the swarm of bats that appeared at sunset when the shadows grew deep.
When I was a kid, spending the summers here in Florida, I didn't have an alarm clock. I woke up with the mourning doves cooing outside the window. I didn't know what they were. I don't know that I cared. But for me that sound, that song, no matter where I hear it now always makes me feel safe and loved because that was how I woke every morning during those summers--safe and loved.
We return to the familiar during stressful times, during periods of grief or sadness, during periods of uncertainty. We hold onto what we can count on, sunrises at the beach, turtles on a log, an anhinga drying its wings. There is safety and hope that somethings never change.
This is God's creation. This is the reflection of who He is. We are made in His image, but He made all the world, all the universe in His image. He is steady. He is familiar. He is the rock. And He is always waiting for us, arms open, ready for when we need Him.
The thing about this particular moment is that I almost missed it.
I tend to ignore anhingas. They're not the prettiest bird and here in Florida they're everywhere. I have had some fun taking pictures of them eating fish, but then the moment is ruined when I pull up the pictures and they're all blurry because the anhinga won't sit still when it's beating a fish to death.
Even its classic I-am-Batman pose, as it dries its wings, has grown old.
I see an anhinga, more likely than not, I'm going to keep on driving.
The day with the turtle, all I could see from the road was the anhinga on the log. I couldn't see the turtle. The only reason I stopped and took out my camera was because I knew that particular log. I stopped at that log almost every day because almost every day there were turtles sunning themselves on it. And even though I couldn't see the turtle initially that day--I could only see the anhinga--I knew there was a chance for a special moment there.
And I try not to pass up chances these days.
Today I was too busy with errands to venture out to anywhere new. And with my options limited and the Wetlands still closed, I opted for the familiar, for the spots I knew I could find something, if not a picture than at least a moment of peace, a moment of deep breaths.
I went first back to the parking lot across the street, near the park, where I had seen the American Kestrel the day before. Not only was he there, but he was sitting on top of the same lamppost where I had seen him last year.
No frog this time, but he watched me as I took a few cautious steps towards him. The other day, a man told me about an American Bittern in the reeds. He told me that if you just pretended like you didn't see the bittern, he would be fooled into thinking you weren't a threat and that he didn't have to hide.
I don't know if that works or not. Do birds really appreciate you trying to psyche them out? But as I approached the kestrel, I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me. No, I'm not here for you, I wanted my body language to say. Just taking a lazy afternoon walk. Pay no attention to me.
I got maybe twenty feet from the lamppost when he decided that was close enough and took off, a flurry of colorful blues and browns. I love the coloring of the kestrel. Part of me wants to paint a room in my condo those colors.
Next I drove to Hope, but my first loop around the church proved to be disappointing. It was, like yesterday, so quiet and still. Had the bobcats scared away all life?
But as I rounded the corner, I spotted an osprey high up in the tree. It's rare that I see them before I hear them. Even so high up in the tree, they don't let me get very close without calling out a warning.
This one was surveying the water even though he already had a fish pinned under his massive talons to the branch.
I tried faking him out as I did with the kestrel and the bittern, but he was smarter than that. I took a step and he cried. I took another step and he lifted his rear and shot me another warning. I was still fifty feet or so away so safe, but I took another step and he lifted his wings and flew off, fish still hooked.
It is good to have things in this world that we can count on. I know the kestrel lives across the street. I know ospreys and hawks like sitting high in the trees at Hope. I know I can walk outside right now and find an ibis or an anhinga or Sandhill Crane within seconds.
When I was a kid growing up in upstate New York, I knew I could count on deer in the fields off the highway. I knew there would always be raccoons or skunks in the compost pile in the backyard. I knew that the sun didn't tell me when it was time to come inside at night, it was the swarm of bats that appeared at sunset when the shadows grew deep.
When I was a kid, spending the summers here in Florida, I didn't have an alarm clock. I woke up with the mourning doves cooing outside the window. I didn't know what they were. I don't know that I cared. But for me that sound, that song, no matter where I hear it now always makes me feel safe and loved because that was how I woke every morning during those summers--safe and loved.
We return to the familiar during stressful times, during periods of grief or sadness, during periods of uncertainty. We hold onto what we can count on, sunrises at the beach, turtles on a log, an anhinga drying its wings. There is safety and hope that somethings never change.
This is God's creation. This is the reflection of who He is. We are made in His image, but He made all the world, all the universe in His image. He is steady. He is familiar. He is the rock. And He is always waiting for us, arms open, ready for when we need Him.
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