I'm watching the birds zoom in and out of the feeders at the Ohio and Erie Canal Visitor Center. I know my friends Nik and Deb would say, "Oh there's a yellow winged zingbat." or "It's rare to see male boolingers so early in the season." I know nothing about birds, but man, I like them. The darts and swoops of the small ones. The slow glide of falcons. I could sit on my front porch for hours trying to decode the chatter and song.It's like a movie at the nature center today -- the windows a screen to this beautiful feeding frenzy.
In Buddhism class a few weeks ago, we were talking about the animal realm of samsura and how unsatisfying animal life must be. It's a persistent search for food. Eat, mate, shit, sleep. Eat, eat, mate, shit, sleep. That's about it for animals in the wild.
I won't speak to the other elements, but persistently seeking food? I do that all of the time -- and I am not talking about nutrients, the tangible attainment of protein and fat. For me, it's an all-day hunt for nourishment. The desire for conversation might be insatiable. Then quiet. Then the need for information. Music. Food, real food. Wind. Scooter. Quiet. Exercise. Rest. Touch. Quiet. Laughter. I'm always hungry for something.
Lots of people are birdwatching at Canalway. Lots of little kids roaming around too. I stop a boy, Louie, from going into the waterfall. He was at the center for a pre-school turtle class. I talk to Louie's mom. I talk with Louie.
A man walks in with his dog, a big herding shepherd. He sits down by the windows; I'm behind him typing this at a table. I ask him a few questions, and soon, I'm drawn to leave this post and sit in a rocker beside him. "Jim," he extends a hand, "My name is Jim."
My new friend says it's a ragtag group of common spring woodlands birds. Blackbirds. Downy woodpeckers. Sparrows, juncos. I know they're nothing special, but I can't take my eyes off the flutter and attack. They all want whatever is being served in the long column feeder. Stillness, caution, approach, feeding, zooming away, zooming back, flutter, swap, linger, dart, flock and fluster. Dashes of red, chartreuse, white, salmon against the gray sky, the brown trees.
Jim teaches me how to use the binoculars. Focus with the left eye, closing the right. Then reverse. I can see now. The tufts on the tufted titmouse. The sleet on the cardinal's head. He points, talks, explains.
I like Jim. His blue eyes, Marine haircut. His is a Bay Village face. Shaker Heights. There's something familiar about him.
He talks while I listen. He tells me about his friend, the naturalist, who could name every inch of the flora and fauna we see before us. How this man slowly went deaf then received cochlear implants. How he cried when he was able to hear the seven calls of the red winged blackbird.
He tells me about his dog, Shannon. How he'd had another dog for eighteen years, then had a year of mourning, how he prayed to his old dog to help him find a walking companion. How he went to the pound and spied the then-emaciated Shannon. Every time he says her name, she wags.
We sit, quietly, look at the birds.
I tell him about the rookery. The way male herons bring sticks to a female as a courting ritual. He tells me about the eagles on the westside. How a mated pair was protecting their egg, then the male was killed on I-480. The naturalists didn't think the egg would hatch without the support of the father. But it did, and now a second male is wooing the mother, trying to help raise the eaglet.
We talk about left eye dominance. How it increases the batting averages of right handed batters. He tells me his baseball average, his softball slugging percentage. I tell him I was always around 700. He smiles, we laugh, trade high fives.
More quiet. More rocking. This is an easy man to be with.
He points to a particular bright yellow finch. Says that they are brownish in the winter, then plume into this amazing color each spring. I ask if it's for mating. He teaches me that it's for self-preservation in the winter, to avoid being spotted by predators.
We talk about biking. Lasik surgery. Smoking pot at Squire's Castle. We share his protein bar. We talk about Lance Armstrong, Chuck Yeager, Tiger Woods. Two stroke penalties. Lung capacity. Migration patterns. Magee Marsh. Good walking shoes. Bad knees. And, then, when Shannon stands and stretches, he says it's time to go. We shake good-bye.
I return to this screen and see what I was writing: the desires that I am starving for. It doesn't take a whack on the head to realize how much I have been fed by the last hour with Jim. Talk, information, sadness, food, quiet, rocking, sharing, storytelling, listening, eye contact, petting, wagging, more stories. It's like I made placed an order on a menu and a delicious meal was put before me for free.
Driving to my next destination, I kept thinking about Magee Marsh. How great it would be to see this world famous spring migration in person, especially after the thrill I got from watching 3 puny feeders this morning. I pull over into a parking lot and google the location and tomorrow's weather. I think about NIkki and Deb, their new trailer on the shore of Lake Erie. I check my gas, plenty to get to Sandusky and back. And just as I am locking in tomorrow's adventure to western Ohio, a car drives past me. A Romney Ryan bumpersticker. And, right beside it, something I have never seen in my life: another saying Magee Marsh.
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