Monsoon in Raptorville with owl and hawks

When it's monsoon season in raptorville, and the temperature is below 100, I go for an evening walk. First, a visit with the young great horned owl who watched my every move

 .

until potential dinner flew close by and turned the owl's head

As the sky began to darken, nighthawks flew above me, in numbers I've never seen before, all heading in the same direction, like the bats that fly out from under the bridge each night. There were bats flying also, but they fluttered like errant bits of confetti.

A Cooper's hawk arrived. I focused on it, but from behind me I heard a man's voice calling in a loud whisper, "Miss, oh, Miss, look here." He was pointing to a second hawk in a different tree. 

He introduced me to his dog, Gracie, her back end wagging while her front end was poised to escape. The man directed me not to make eye contact with her if I wanted her to approach me. "She's my rescue. I don't know what happened to her before I got her, but it wasn't good."

I was hoping to see Coyote, as I often do 

Coyote drawing Beth Surdut www.bethsurdut.com

but instead, I hooked up with  Maxfield Parrish, who'd come to  paint the sky.

 I walked home, watching the rain walk over the mountains.

Getting a buzz from raising the dead (cicada)

In the weeks and days before monsoon,

 rain is not a promise.

 It is a hope, 

and a tease.

 I  see it walking across the sky as I walk across the desert.

The cicada was perfect and perfectly still, so I picked it up, placed it on my palm. 

I admired the beautiful wings

contemplated a noisy courtship

the nuances of gratification

so much to accomplish as life shortens

and, forming a cage with my fingers,

carried the insect home.

Just as I entered the house, my hand

buzzed.

zzzzt                               zzzzt                                 zzzt                                     zzzt                     zzzzt

 I grabbed the camera with my other hand and headed to my outdoor worktable.

Cicada and I looked at each other for a moment

and then the little being I had mistaken for dead 

stood on its head 

spinning in moves 

that would impress a break dancer.

a final performance

a memorable dance of death

I'm still hoping for rain

and a noisy courtship.

Mountain

Good morning, mountain.

On the rare mornings I awake to this mountain's disappearing act, 
we share a secret:

We exist whether you see us, or not.
And should I ever somehow forget joy,
the hummingbirds remind me.
And should I ever somehow forget love
the cat sits on my chest and licks my face
And should I ever forget camaraderie
my old friends knock on the door of my heart.
And should I ever forget why I exist
my creativity says, "I am the mountain."

Ways to go wild in the desert

"I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw." (Hamlet).

 Crepuscular creature that I am, I often walk the desert starting at dusk and into the night. Last night, responding to the monsoons, lovely poisonous white datura bloomed amidst yellow brittlebush covering much of the paths to and from the labyrinth. 

Three Cooper's hawks flew close above me at the dimming of the day. later, a fourth hawk landed in a tree and watched me photograph the flowers.

On my way home, I was thinking, "If I were a snake, I'd like to be in this undergrowth..." and then just as I reached a clearing, I almost stepped on this king snake.

Nature is Never Boring

The Art Of Paying Attention by Beth Surdut: Illustrated Wildlife Radio Encounters on NPR

I’m a wildlife illustrator, essayist, and storyteller in the Southwest United States. I research the behavior of each creature, write about our true encounters, interview experts, collect sounds, draw each critter, and then go to the local NPR station to record with an Emmy award-winning producer. My multi-platform series, The Art of Paying Attention, airs and is posted on azpm.org, the NPR affiliate Arizona Public Media.

When Rachel Carson wanted people to pay attention to the effects of environmental pollution, she personalized the far-reaching effects of pesticides by asking readers of her New Yorker pieces to look out their windows. And they did. Not only did people see the corpses of poisoned squirrels, they took action. Whether motivated to protect the human species or every little life in the larger ecosystem, the results raised enough awareness to make changes.
Like Carson, I know from experience that if you pay attention long enough, you can see the whole world in your yard. And once you start looking, it is hard to stop. From my perspective, paying attention brings care, care brings love; and that love engenders protection.
With this series, I am extending an invitation to observe, with unbounded curiosity, the wild life that flies, crawls, and skitters along with us in our changing environment.
In this time of environmental doomsayers–and we do need to hear the bad news– the enormity of destruction can render some of hopeless. I offer a joyous and, I hope, action-inducing alternative to those of us who are motivated by wonder rather than by fear and guilt. By being aware of what is around us, each of us can care for our little patch, and together form a quilt of protection. And have a great time doing so.

More info: bethsurdut.com

http://www.boredpanda.com/the-art-of-paying-attention-illustrated-wildlife-radio-encounters-by-beth-surdut/

Art of Paying Attention on NPR: Snakes

Gopher snake drawing by Beth Surdut 2016

For NPR audio, which I highly recommend, click here

Everything you see on this page is © Beth Surdut 2016.

“Any glimpse into the life of an animal quickens our own and makes it so much the larger and better in every way.” ~ John Muir

I was experiencing an “ohh, look, a tiny baby bunny” moment, when an impressively large gopher snake zoomed across the yard like a kid on a bike when the ice cream truck is in the neighborhood—head up, jaws wide open, and only one thing in mind.

I know everybody’s got to eat, but not in front of me. I have a hard time watching those nature TV specials where the antelope/bunny/mouse/cute thing gets chomped. So, I literally ran interference, yelling, “No you don’t!” while chasing a five-foot long snake the size of my fist, whose earless body can transmit my vibrations through skin, muscle, and bone.

           

I don’t want to send this beautifully patterned reptile--or any other-- to its next incarnation as a belt or shoes; but, since we all can’t just get along, and these snakes can have a quarter-mile territory, I’d like it to move on. A challenge-- my yard is a snake’s Eden with fresh-water stations, shade, baby birds, bunnies, ground squirrels, a variety of lizards to eat, and a human who doesn’t want to kill snakes, just discourage them.

           

The gopher snake, also called a bull snake, is non-venomous, but can mimic a rattlesnake even though it has no rattles. Now coiled and, for lack of a better word, sulking under a lilac bush, this snake has the ability to flatten its head, vibrate its tail and hiss like a rattler, but other than bunny bloodlust, there was none of that action and no aggression.

Eyeing the sharp end of a long-handled hoe, I considered my stance on live and let live. Yup, still not a murderer. The tiny bunny was nowhere in sight, so I did the only reasonable thing I could think of—I ran to get a very long stick and my camera.

           

Mighty hunter that I am, I spoke softly and poked the big stick very gently at the tail to coax the serpent into leaving paradise. It complied, slowly. Stretching out, it nosed upward slightly, tongue tasting the air as it slithered out to the driveway and camouflaged itself on a welcome mat of accumulated dead leaves.

           

I nudged the tip of the tail again, and, when it didn’t move, I explained loudly that it should find a new zip code. Snake languidly moved another ten feet under foliage so thick, I couldn’t see a trace.

     

Did I mention I was born in the Chinese year of the snake?

This past year, in one of my Paying Attention workshops, a woman told me her sister and husband had bought a house with acreage in the Chiricahuas, from an old man who told them that there was a diamondback named Charlie on the property. He said that snake was at least 25 years old. Had never hurt anybody.

One day, the woman and her sister were standing by a stream there and her sister said, “Don’t move, but look down in the grass between us.”

“I could see the diamond pattern and that it was big…and then we kind of went crazy,” she said to me. Her voice rose and she talked in that way people do when they’re really flustered. “What about the grandchildren? What if they play down here? We have to do something.”

Her sister told her to go get her husband from the house and tell him to bring his gun.

There was such sadness in that woman as she quieted down and said, “I did. I went and got him. He shot that snake in the head. He killed it because we were hysterical. We weren’t thinking…if only we’d thought about what we were doing. Because when we settled down, I realized we’d killed Charlie. I felt so bad and I still do. If we’d only thought.”

 I saw the tiny bunny once a couple of days after the deflected gopher snake attack. About a week later, while watering, I spotted two separate pieces of bunny fur with chunks of skin and meat attached. Not unusual—almost every critter here is food for another. But, even knowing that, I stood in bleak sadness, letting the hose pour costly lifeblood onto the always thirsty desert floor. But then, I saw movement—a youngster! Little furred ears, their insides the color of peaches, a white puff of tail!  I named it Survivor.

 A baby gopher snake, only as big around as my index finger,  slipped gracefully past me this morning on its way to a plant-filled no-man’s-land between me and the neighbor’s—I hope it likes it there.

Harris hawk and the intruder

Harris Hawk drawing in progress by Beth Surdut

Stuart Udall wrote, “Get to know the land and the messages it whispers to those willing to listen.”

No whispers here, the songbirds and doves silent.

Fierce, the Harris hawk glared at me with cantaloupe colored eyes.

Big. Intent. Used to winning, I could tell. Unsettling.

Hissed at me as it flew from my patio to a high branch of an acacia tree to scold me for all the neighboring animals to hear.

Lush russet legs, substantial talons and a beak that could have snatched the cat away.

The hawk returned the next afternoon, “anh, anh, anh” as it flew overhead.

The cat, no fool, crouched by the kitchen door, blue eyes watching through the screen.

A baby Anna’s hummingbird, old enough to flash crimson as it moved its head, young enough to be fluff, allowed me to stand near and watch it watch me.

The neighbors say, “The animals seem to find you.”

I think not. I am the intruder moved into their territory.

Speaking of territory, you are welcome in mine @www.bethsurdut.com
Post Script: Hawk returned on the third day, perching on a telephone pole, his presence dominating  for only a moment before two mockingbirds gave him what-for, screeching, scolding, pecking at his head and  chasing him across the sky. "Annhh, annhhh, annnh, " I called as his small but mighty escorts took the lead and the rear, giving  Hawk no chance to turn back.

Choose your audience carefully

The  Regal Horned Lizard, pointed and crenellated, stubby and shy, was so intent on watching a grasshopper on my front  stoop that  neither one moved when I appeared.
Patience, such patience, I thought as I stood next to the lizard, admiring him with my camera.
Grasshopper did not move.
My camera snapped at them.
Lizard glanced at me, then back to Grasshopper.
Snap, went the jaws my camera.
Lizard did not twitch. Grasshopper held his ground.
So smart, I thought. Grasshopper knows the speed of a lizard.
Playing it  safe, I thought.
Oh, the wisdom of the wild.

I shifted my stance and Lizard lost his focus,
scuttled into the blue agave whose
spines would protect him from me.
Grasshopper did not move.
Closer inspection allowed.
Surely, Grasshopper would leap now.
But it is hard to leave when one leg is stuck to the  pavement
Impossible to leave when
you are desiccated
preserved
perfect, but dead.

The Regal Horned Lizard (horned toad, Tumamoc in the language of Tohono Oodham)
and I, with more names than I shall list,
had patiently stalked a dead grasshopper.

One foot stuck in place can
impede your progress
You could stay there, looking perfect
until you die, an object of curiosity
and eventually
Someone might notice that
you haven't moved and
the living would move on.

There is a video crawling round the web
the courtship dance of a male
peacock spider, so named
for his brilliant display.
Such a dance he does!
Choreographed as if for Vegas
His legs, like arms, kicking
like a chorus girl
waggling her sequined behind
On and on he goes
Giving his all
"Look at me! Notice me! Pick me!"
But she is silent
unmoving
Dead, like the grasshopper.

Take notice who you dance for
Choose your audience carefully.

Speaking of audiences, get a front row seat @www.bethsurdut.com

All Things Considered: Sense of Wonder

A few weeks ago, I sat in a study group under artificial light in a darkly paneled room with no windows. 

The teacher pontificated, "We have all lost our sense of wonder."

He shook his head sadly and continued his lecture on ancient theological arcana. 

Speak for yourself, mister, and get a window. Better yet, get outside where all your senses can spark if you pay attention. One glorious place to breathe in and explore is right in the city.

I'll Fly Away- Saturniid Moth-- silk painting by Beth Surdut (sold)

 The butterfly house at the Tucson Botanical Gardens is a steamy world of small wonders.
It is also a kind of coming home for me.

Tucson Botanical Gardens

Orchid Society by Beth Surdut

                      

The years I spent in the jungles and rivers in Hawaii and Florida

Butterfly islands design by Beth Surdut

Tucson Botanical  Gardens Butterfly House

TBG Butterfly House

Hibiscus Varietal-OOAK hand  painted silk woman's top by Beth Surdut

  introduced me to the mysteries of orchids, hibiscus, epiphytes,

Dendrobates ventriculatus @Tucson Botanical Gardens

 and dendrobates, tiny colorful frogs with a poisonous reputations and Latin names so satisfyingly  fun to say: ventriculatus, histrionicus, tinctorus.

Painting by Beth Surdut of dendrobates ventriculatus @Selby Gardens

After a volunteer checks to see that no butterflies are hitching a ride on me,  I stand in each realm of the botanical gardens, seeing what I have already painted and drawn, and planning what I want to do for a solo exhibition in the lovely gallery that was the home of people who absolutely delighted in nature's beauty. Every element extends an invitation to me as a visual storyteller and writer, illustrator and designer. In turn, what I create will, I hope, both please and inspire, and come full circle so that people will follow the path from my art to the fascinating beings and habitat that causes me to pick up pen and brush.
An otherwise shy lizard, big and handsome, flaunts his spiny blue back as he pauses in front of me and turns his head to give me a sideways look. I can tell you that his sense of wonder and mine are still intact.

Armored Chameleon (detail) painting by Beth Surdut (original and prints available)

I invite you to step inside my garden @www.bethsurdut.com

Healing Scarf For Gabrielle Giffords

 The Hebrew prayer Misheberach asks for “complete healing” –r’fuah shleimah in Hebrew-- of body and spirit. As I began painting, saddened by the death of songwriter Debbie Friedman and the Tucson shootings,   I heard the melody of Debbie’s Misheberach and realized the scarf was destined for Congresswoman Giffords.

So, here it is—The Heavens scarf, inscribed with r’fuah shleimah and inspired by the power greater than us, who created the star-filled universe and gives us the strength of spirit to heal.