Subject: [Tweeters] Fill long-bills
Date: Oct 16 01:25:53 2004
From: Connie Sidles - csidles at isomedia.com


Hey tweets, Today for the first time, my son Alex's friends came by and
spirited him off for an evening on the town. I have no idea where they're
going or what they're doing. You don't ask a 22-year-old for information
like that unless you want to hear answers that you probably aren't going to
approve of entirely. Alex looked so happy to go. His strength has come back
and so has his easy smile.

I took advantage of my freedom from responsibility. In the failing light of
evening, I went to my favorite place on earth, the Fill. I arrived as the
mist was rising off the land. In the distance, the Husky marching band was
practicing in the stadium. Every now and then, their martial airs wafted
across the fields like the rustle of a breeze. Across the lake, cars were
rushing back and forth on the 520 bridge, people hurrying home to warm
houses and warmer suppers. I could smell the odor of the rank weeds that
line the path to the main pond. I was all alone with the wind and the birds.
I sat down on the north edge of the pond and tried to let the peace of the
green-winged teals fill my soul. But my soul was too crowded with rage - no
room for the peace I could see around me. I tried to attune myself to the
globe of starlings bouncing over the cottonwoods in the distance. I listened
quietly for the chip of a late common yellowthroat. I thought thoughts of
calm. It was no use. The longer I sat, the more my rage bubbled up from the
deep darkness of my core. Mt. St. Helens has nothing on me when it comes to
heat. My rage could melt whole glaciers of indifference.

Why am I so enraged? I think you know. A better question might be, at whom
am I so angry? I thought about that as I watched ten thousand crows pile
into the trees and bushes around the dime parking lot, all cawing raucously,
looking for some innocent bird to harass, purely for the malice of it. An
appropriate bird for me to watch right then. I found myself remembering a
science fiction tale written years ago by Carol Severance. It's called
"Whispering Cane." It's about a people, the Lelanin, who live in a land
where they grow vast fields of sugarcane. When the Lelanin suffer a sorrow,
they go to the fields, dig a hole and scream their pain and grief into the
land. When all their pain is screamed into the hole, they bury it and seal
it with a spell. Their suffering nourishes the cane, which rustles with the
voices of all the Lelanin who have lived and died. As the story opens, the
Lenalin are about to be overrun by an evil warlord. To save her people, the
leader goes into the sugarcane fields, takes a knife, and slashes at the
land, opening all the holes of generations of suffering Lelanin. The grief
pours out and is so ghastly that all the enemies are overcome, just
listening to the pain that others have felt.

Remembering that story, I imagined digging a hole there at the main pond and
screaming my pain and suffering and anger into it. I strained to give my
grief to the Fill, but nothing happened. I was still filled with rage that
was stoppered up inside me and could not get out. I am angry at the world;
at least, I have enough anger to fill the world. More particularly, I am
angry at the leaders of my country who have so lightheartedly led us into
war. They are little children who play with toys too dangerous for them to
touch, but no one stops them. They are video-game players who blow away
enemies but the enemies aren't real to them and neither are those who die
for the players. I am angry at my fellow citizens, who talk about the war in
abstract terms, like it's some kind of high school debate or college theory.
The war is not theoretical to me.

I sat there at the main pond, watching the teals and the shovelers dabble
and float gracefully on the glassy surface, pocked now and then with insects
hitting the water or maybe misty raindrops. Finally I packed up my stool and
started back. There can be no connection to the serenity of nature when all
your soul is stuffed with rage. I couldn't ask the Fill to take my anger.
The Fill is sometimes violent, always beautiful, never angry.

My beloved Fill was failing me. Where can I turn for peace of mind if not
here? I became so crushed with despair that I could not walk. I set my stool
down at the south end of the pond and just stared dumbly at the scene. A
slight motion along the shore caught my eye. I lifted my binocs and beheld
two long-billed dowitchers foraging at the water's edge. They were
juveniles, chocolate brown with bright supercilia and even brighter eyes. As
I watched in delight, they strolled out of the water and began yanking in
the weeds along the verge. Gluebugs stuck to the grass? Spiral worms wound
tightly around the stems of St. Johnswort? I had no clue what they were
finding to eat like that. Eventually they stopped eating and began preening,
lifting their tails, opening their wings, stretching their necks to reach
their long bills down to their breasts. They were both very businesslike.
When they were done, they tucked their bills into their backs and went to
sleep. I quietly folded my stool and snuck away. All my anger had leaked
away, and I began to think clearly again for the first time in a month.

It seems to me that people feel a need to control their environment and
through their environment, their lives. We seem to require the belief that
by our actions, we can make ourselves safe and comfortable. The religious
among us cede that need for control to the Almighty. Those who are skeptical
of religion live by the Boy Scout motto: Be prepared. All of us hope that we
can stave off tragedy, disease, poverty, pain and death by taking some
action of our own, even if the only action we may take is prayer. When we
can't stave off the ugliness of the world, we become afraid. The fear leads
to anger.

I have learned that anger is not a good way to get through bad times. Anger
can carry you for a while, enough to get you through an immediate crisis,
perhaps. But it is no way to live. Anger shuts you away from love. It closes
your eyes to beauty. It isolates you from the peace of mind that is nature's
gift. Why does nature grant peace of mind? Because nature is eternal. It is
bigger than we are, bigger than the awful troubles that weigh us down.

The Fill is not a natural place. It was made by men cutting a trough between
Lake Washington and Lake Union. It is filled with human garbage and covered
over with a clay and soil cap supplied by men. Many of the plants that grow
here were seeded by gardeners who can't seem to keep their hands off nature
- the drive to modify the landscape and thus control it must be too strong.
Many of the plants were also brought here by humans from other continents.
These plants invade the Fill like shock troops sent to destroy the natives.
When I look at the landscape that is the Fill, I don't see the majesty of
nature. I see the hubris of man. But the birds that come here are different.
They come on their own and are completely wild. No two days at the Fill are
ever the same for me because the birds do not obey any will of ours but only
their own.

Some days I see the marsh wren down by the dead beaver tree. Other days, he
sings with his big voice but hides from view. Dennis Paulson believes he's
there year-round, but neither he nor I know this for a fact because in the
winter, the marsh wren is silent as well as hidden. I will see him only if
he decides to let me see him. I don't know how long the marsh wren down by
the dead beaver tree will live. But I know that there will continue to be
marsh wrens there long after I am gone, just as the long-billed dowitcher
juveniles will come to feed in October, and preen and tuck their bills into
their backs and go to sleep. May peace be upon you. - Connie, Seattle

csidles at isomedia.com