Sit Down and Shut Up

We are creatures of habit and direction: we like our days and our lives to move forward. We like the stories we read to do the same. This is not one of those stories. In fact, if you start at the end and read backwards, you might just join me at the same place.

Our Pond Lot Preserve is convenient this morning in chilly early April, and I wear warm, dark clothes. My plan is to sit on the boardwalk over the wet area between kettle hole ponds for an hour. This morning a maple’s shadow falls across the boardwalk. Its position determines my seat, conveniently disguising my legs — and I can lean against it too. Bonus.

Like you, I walk through the woods partly to see what I come across on my way. While in motion, I usually see a lot. But I’ve wanted to use a “sit spot” purposefully again, a ‘non-act’ I rarely do. You can guess that a hunter finds sitting in one spot effective for determining the habits of his or her quarry. A sit spot can also be a refuge from the intrusive world, a place in nature where one enters a state of watchful stillness. You disappear. It’s like Zen meditation, though any spirituality you encounter probably came along with you. Just sit, look, and listen, while the local actors decide you are harmless.

A murder of crows passes by, conversing loudly on the fly. As the collective noun suggests, maybe they are plotting the execution of one of their flock who’s gone bad? A pair of phoebes bop around over the water. Little else happens. From over the ridge a red-winged blackbird jeers, “You’re at the wrong kettle pond.”

Birds go about their lives while I try to take a break from mine. Yet my brain still runs like a puppy. The word “postpone” arrives to help. I’ll just postpone every thought, and especially every emotion. I am learning as I go, or in this case staying put. I take notes, barely moving my hand. Time passes gently. My breathing slows down. I am comfortable, not cold. A squirrel comes down a tree. I turn my head slowly; yes, he’s ignoring me. One bullfrog croaks once, lethargically, behind me. Another country heard from.

I sit in a theater defined by glacial ridges, a soundscape as well as a waterscape. I am the audience, but I’m too early for the play to start. A couple of instruments tune up, snatches of unrelated harmony and melody.

This water must be full of frog and salamander eggs, turtles, and aquatic insects. In these woods, spring flowers are hiding. I sit. This inaction is the opposite of exploring nature. I try the Merlin bird app. It doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know.

I spin around south to face the other pond. The wind has picked up and blows in my face; the sun is bright. Pond ripple reflections dance on the bottom of an overhanging branch. Spider webs flicker, glowing silken lines disappearing and reappearing.

Do you already have a favorite place in nature you go and sit quietly, your own spot? Reusing the same location can be doubly fulfilling, watching the seasons and the lives there reacting to earth’s changes. It can start to feel like a sacred space, yours alone.

A hawk zooms by, too fast to make out, does a U-turn and is gone. No idea if it saw me. I snap another photo. It’s been 40 minutes, and I think it’s time for a walk. Within a few steps, leaves are rustling, sticks crack. “Here I come, kids”. Yet I spy a bluebird and hear a pileated woodpecker drumming. It’s early. Most birds have not arrived yet. And it is too cold this morning for reptiles and amphibians to be active. When does the curtain rise?

I hope to try this a few more times this season, at other “sit spots”, and tell you about it. For now, although I may have briefly disappeared, I’m back where I started.

George Jacobi

FYI – the migratory birds do arrive right now, end of April, beginning of May. Look around this week.