belonging

We live in a world in which it can feel almost impossible to tune out the pressures, the strife, the relentless, remorseless evil of the powerful and greedy. But, if you seek it, there is peace to be found. There are moments when your heart will sing its own chirpy melody, and your soul will, for a while, recognize only what is good, wondrous, and worthy of admiration and gratitude. This is the story of such a moment.

Essential as they may be, no one looks forward to vaccinations. Nonetheless, Maisie was due for her leptospirosis and bordetella shots, so, bright and early in the morning, we set off to the veterinary hospital with our dog and a backpack bursting at the seams with a day's supplies. One simply doesn't rouse a pup from a peaceful snooze to have her jabbed and immediately transported back home to lament the betrayal of it all. By the time our girl returned to her comfy bed, those shots would be nothing but a fleeting, distant memory. And she would slumber deeply. And she would dream the happiest of dreams.

Since one of the county’s most popular parks opened, we've been there only twice, both times in the autumn when the stalks were dead and brown, the ground was dry and barren, and the wildlife had moved on to literally greener pastures. Before the park had been added, we'd walked around those wetlands thousands of times with Sadie, an area teeming with wildlife visible only to the keenest observers: great blue heron standing stock-still amongst the reeds and grasses, field mice and bunnies scurrying to safety from the hawks and eagles circling above, a variety of ducks, geese, and plovers wading in the shallow waters, and the random Pacific tree frog rehearsing for the resounding collaborative symphony that would be performed, without fail, come every nightfall. But that was nearly twenty years ago when we'd regularly spied the hidden marvels, heard the singular sounds of Washington's wetlands. The landscape has changed drastically since then. I feared the wildlife had abandoned their habitat altogether.

Not so.

To arrive in the wetlands in the spring is to open your senses to a host of natural wonders. Despite my best efforts, I did not glimpse a heron--which doesn't mean there weren't any there. Unless they are in the water, perched high, or in flight, they are notoriously difficult to spot. These wetlands had long been a nesting ground for them, and I hope that nearby construction over the past many years has not driven them from their home. The absence of long-legged denizens, however, did not detract from the variety of avian activity we did encounter. Perched upon pine boughs, cattails, and fences, we noticed plenty of commonplace birds like sparrows and crows, even a robin I caught on video splashing merrily through a bath in a pool of water. And soaring above--too high to identify--was a bird of prey harassing a panicked flock. As they suddenly descended and passed just a few feet over Dennie's head, the smaller fliers appeared to be cowbirds. In addition to these feathered friends, red-winged blackbirds alighted on the wiry stalks of their breeding grounds, the males singing out a steady chorus of conk-la-ree to attract the far less vividly colored females. And an orchestra of disparate birdsong filled the air from every direction.

The wetlands are, as the name suggests, wet. Shimmering, shallow pools throughout the tall grasses hint at entire ecosystems beyond our immediate perception. Rustic fences and bridges over these fragile habitats protect them from human interference. Some of these waterlogged areas are no bigger than puddles; others are ponds, just large enough to support small families of waterfowl. As Canada geese honked overhead, we observed a female mallard and her two adorable ducklings foraging first on a dry patch of land, then swimming, diving, learning. We witnessed the remarkable moment when the attentive mother taught her babies how to plunge beneath the rippling surface to feed. One fluffy yellow posterior bobbed above the water with noticeable uncertainty, but the dear little one soon got the hang of it. Another mallard pair floated restfully in the shade of taller, lush green, aquatic vegetation.

Twice, we spotted a lone killdeer, the first I'd ever seen in the wild. The bird's markings are stunning, and its eyes--red as rubies--contrast dramatically against its tricolored feathers. This one was a particularly quick-footed plover, a challenging subject to photograph. In the end, from a great distance, I prevailed. We also came across the curious gaze of a rabbit, who obliged me with a snapshot or two before hopping off to whatever bunny business was afoot.

Dennie, Maisie, and I ambled along the trails and over bridges for hours that day, admiring the abundant greenery, the wildflowers, a diverse grove of budding trees that included some of the most fascinating evergreens, as well as the hypnotic shimmy of the quaking aspen, and we did it all to a soundtrack of rustling leaves, melodious chirps and trills, and the subdued rhythm of life all around us.

What began as a gray, overcast morning, gradually transitioned to a bright, blue-sky day, but the sunshine--even while obscured by the clouds--had radiated from the enraptured smile of our darling dog since the moment we'd departed our vehicle. By noon, the temperature was rising, and we couldn't find a bench or picnic table in any way shielded from the sun's rays, except on the far end, well beyond the wetlands. The sharp, repetitive pops of a pickleball hitting paddles did not deliver the ambience we sought. We kept walking, and, as we rounded the park clubhouse, we discovered a cool and peaceful spot, a vast swath of shade upon the lawn. It was there we chose to share a midday meal. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to us to go back to the car to grab the blanket from the backseat. Instead, we settled onto the freshly mown green, face to face with our grinning pup, and had the most serene and memorable al fresco lunch in the history of picnics--in my history, at any rate. In the past, we'd always eaten on a bench somewhere, Maisie at our feet. Dining on the ground with her proved to be the best kind of seating upgrade. It wasn't just a meal. It was true togetherness and bonding on a more deeply connected level. Our baby felt it too. I could see it in her eyes.

There was a moment, there in the cool, damp grass, a moment that was more than quiet bliss, more than the satiating of empty bellies. It was a moment when the world reflected what it should have been, the peace there could have been without the corruption and selfishness of man, a moment of genuine belonging--in this place, in this time--belonging to every whisper of the wind, to every cheery birdsong carried upon those gentle breezes; belonging to one another, to this life, to the very earth upon which we sat. There was a moment, and it was only one of many in a glorious, nature-rich day of belonging.