Nature Illiterate And Not Proud Of It

Yesterday afternoon I found myself poking around a pebble beach lifting up stones looking for crabs. It was the last of the winter walks organised by the Sottish Waterways Trust.

A day or two before yesterday we would have been peeling down to T-shirts and slathering on the suntan oil. The temperature dropped. Gloves and hats were out in force. It was a foggy day. Everything was still. Everything was silent.

I stand on the edge of the world
Fog obscures distant shores
Still water mirrors flying birds
Tiny crabs shift side-ways under stones

© Mel Kerr 2019

We walked along to Carnac Point. The last time we had been that way there were bulldozers digging up stuff and workers laying down a proper path. They had done their work and we stopped here and there to admire the picnic tables engraved with poetry, observations and pictures of birds.

One of the tables was dedicated to St Kessog. None of us, not even the retired Religious Education teacher among us, knew anything about the saint.

“Kessog was the son of the King of Cashel in Munster and started his religious life while still in Ireland. It is said that a swimming accident when he was a child led to the deaths of the sons of a number of visiting princes. Kessog brought them back to life and averted a war by spending a night in prayer. He was then educated at a monastery by St Patrick and St Machaloi before setting out for Scotland.”

The water was so still and the Kessock Bridge so perfectly reflected that it looked like lorries and cars were travelling upside down along with the usual right side up ones. We had been told by the lads from the Scottish Waterways Trust to look out for otters. We settled for crab hunting instead. I wasn’t too enthusiastic about turning over stones. The ones in my garden tend to hide a variety of beetles and wood lice – things that run towards me at great speed.

Earlier in the day I had been leafing through an old copy of Country Living. The car was having its front tyres replaced and the magazine was on the coffee table in the waiting room. I was sipping my way through a hot chocolate from the vending machine. I wasn’t interested in buying a country cottage, or replacing the décor and furnishings. The recipes featured asparagus in various dishes.

An article “The Lost Words” caught my attention. Later that day, had I not lost my words I could have named the particular brand of crabs that scuttled sideways beneath the stones. I could have identified the trees that marked the path. I could have told you which birds were wheeling above. I’d already been told on a previous visit all about the seaweed.

The article was about the way nature vocabulary is diminishing. Apparently in some test, run by some scientists, young children could identify just about every Pokemon character ever thought up. They couldn’t tell you what a bluebell looked like or point out an oak tree. They were nature illiterate!

I remember years ago I did a teaching practice in a primary school in a small village in the Northumberland outback.  Mine was the first drop off point for the bus. I was there long before most people. I spent the hour or so in the kitchen with the school cooks. Along the windowsill there might have been pots of herbs or a host of wooden spoons pretending to be flowers in a vase. What was there for certain were a number of pairs of binoculars. In between peeling stuff, chopping up stuff or stirring stuff, one or the other of the cooks would stop by the window, pick up the binoculars and search the perimeter of the playground – a green hedge of bushes and trees. They were looking for birds and would call me over and point out anything interesting wildlife. I remember they were not teachers. One could imagine teachers doing that – but kitchen staff? I was nature illiterate then and I am not fluent yet.

Robert Macfarlane, an author and poet, and Jackie Morris, an artist, got together to produce a book about nature. The poems are not called poems, but spells – a reminder that the best poetry is spoken out loud and transforms the hearer in some way. The article contained examples of pages from the book – the poem, or spell, and an illustration. The poetry reminded me of Kenneth Steven’s work. I prefer his poems on nature. If poetry is all about the sounds of the words, then The Lost Words uses them well. If you need to see onomatopoeia at its best then this is these poems excel!

Perhaps, had I not read the article, I would have talked my way out of joining the lads from the Scottish Waterways Trust on their short walk. I would for sure not have ventured down to the pebble beach. The last time I had been down there examining seaweed, I had slipped on the wet stuff and plunged face down into another seaweed pile. We had been looking at sea lice. Urg!

It seems to me that now is the time to start looking at nature much more closely than we do.  Some of these things may not be around in a decade or two.

When I get to heaven God just might ask me for my opinion about Carcinus maenas and copepods. It’s best to start genning up now.

Beer, Bats and Bruises

I had added to my store of loyalty cards but after last night I might not stay loyal.  This time it’s not my ninth cup of tea or coffee that I get free but my sixth country ranger event.

The freebee magazine that comes through the letter box packed with information of what to do and where to go included a few sentences about a Highland Council Ranger-accompanied walk – a dusk stroll around the Merkinch Nature Reserve looking for bats and moths and other nocturnal life. The meeting place would be revealed if one phoned and booked a place, as if this were some illegal activity that could get raided by the police! I phoned and was unable to book a place.  Knowing there was only one possible meeting place I planned to gate crash.

I knew from the start I wasn’t properly dressed.  A friend of ours currently living in Germany told us that if they send out their children badly dressed they get reprimanded.  If only we were in Germany that might what followed last night might never have happened.  The other walkers were dressed up warmly, armed with stout walking boots.  I had must-replace trainers and a light jacket.

Our first stop along the trail was a bush that had been doused in beer.  My initial thought was that it was a naturally produced night time fragrance. The wonders of nature.  I pictured addicts licking leaves when the liquid version ran out.  The ranger had doused the tree before we arrived with the intention of attracting moths.  We would, she promised, be able to see them on the way back.

With the light fading, we were seeing less.  Colours had faded to greyscale.  Now, was the time to awaken our sense of smell and hone in on the sounds we could hear.  An experiment.  I failed to listen properly as she handed around plastic cups, foil tops with a number written on top, slashed open with a mushroom knife, and asked us to identify the smell.  There was nothing unusual about smelling coffee or a slices of apple concealed beneath the foil but my mind had linked the smells to the nocturnal life about to come alive.  I thought the smells were wild life smells.  How was I supposed to know what bats smelled of, or roe deer? That some species of night life smelled of coffee impressed me.  It’s a Friday night.  Please don’t expect my brain to make sensible connections.

We moved on.  The ranger was a source of interesting information.  As we waded through a field of meadowsweet, inhaling its almond fragrance, she told us about its healing properties.  It’s an active ingredient in pain killing.  I had an opportunity to put it into practice later on that night but, you know how it is, in through one ear out the other. 

We moved on.  There is a board walk around the outskirts of part of the reserve, the wetland part.  Dark spots on darker spots at that time of night.  Someone spotted a family of ducks on a late evening swim.  Someone else spotted a heron standing among the reeds.  My eyes and my glasses were not up to the task and I just took their word for it. 

At this point the ranger distributed the bat gadgets.  Bats echo-locate things but the frequency is too high for humans to hear, too high even for the dog in our midst to respond to.  The gadget located the sounds and translated them to a lower frequency. Cool. Seriously cool. We switched on the gadgets and set the frequency at 50 something, or 40, and aimed it at the sky.

We were surrounded by bat noises.  It was the sound of the “triffids” from the old TV programmes – swift, slapping, clacking sounds. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.  In torch light the ranger showed cardboard cut outs of various bat sizes.  It was the smallest one that we could hear.  They eat midges, she said.  If only they would eat the midges eating me, I thought.  Apparently bats save the government millions of pounds they would have had to spend on pesticides.  Well done, bats!  Is there anything else you can do the help the government to make savings?

We moved on.  The canal had a different species of bat – bigger ones – bats that skimmed the water and ate the bugs that floated on top.  We were ordered to set the bat gadgets to 30 something.  Not only could we hear them but we might also see them.

The moment approached.

Did I say I was probably the youngest person in the group? The ranger was younger than me, and there was a child with trainers that lit up lights as she walked, but bar them, I was the youngest.  We crossed a railway line to get to the canal path.  I was following someone whose torch was bobbing about the path ahead of me.  There as a step up to the part of the path across the lines.  I didn’t make the step and came hurtling down solidly across the lines. Yes despite being the almost-youngest, I fell over. 

Railway lines are not ideal places to fall over.  Did I imagine on-coming lights?  Actually, yes.  We had seen a train earlier.  I wanted to just lie still for a moment for before dragging myself up.  No one knew the train timetable and insisted I got up straight away.  Eventually I was helped to my feet.  I hurt everywhere - knees, elbows, my left shoulder and both hands.  I couldn’t see the damage but I could feel it.  I wanted to cry but cheerfully insisted that only my pride was injured!

I have to confess that the whole walk lost its magic at that point.  I lost my interest in the bats as too much of me squealed with pain.  We watched the waters of the canal.  It was very still and there was an unruffled reflection of the houses on the opposite bank.

Someone insisted the plop and the ripples by one of the locks was an otter or a seal, but the ranger corrected him saying that otters and seals rarely plopped and rippled the water.  It was much more likely to be a duck.  She talked about otters.  Apparently they had an otter expert out when the reserve was first being reclaimed and the boardwalk built.  He looked around and declared the absence of otters on the reserve and went online to say so.  Pictures flooded in over the next weeks and months of otters sunbathing on the boardwalk, and splashing about in shallow water pools.

The water-skimming bats were a no-show and the hour was late so we turned back to return to our starting point and check the beer-infused tree for moths.  I approached the railway line crossing with uncertainty.  Falling twice seemed unlikely but I was still feeling shaky on my feet.

The moths were a no-show.  We collected a profusion of leaflets the ranger put out on a picnic bench table on moths and bats and went our separate ways.

In the light of day I examine my injuries. The top layer of flesh has been scraped off my hands.  My elbows are as pointed as ever and sore to the touch, the left knee is quite bruised and the shoulder tells me I will never play championship tennis ever again.

Was it worth it all – my scraped hands and bruised knees?  Absolutely, yes. Exploring a side of nature I never get to see, with an expert, was great.  It amazes me that we can see, hear, smell and touch such a variety of life – and yet we choose to live in such a narrow strip of it.

And of course it amazes me that God made it all!

Coprinus Domesticus

I have been quietly sitting, reading the Spring edition of the RSPB magazine “Nature’s Home”. There was an interesting letter about a bee orchid found in an uncut patch of lawn in a previous edition.  I don’t know whether bee orchids are rare. A letter writer in this edition lives in Edinburgh and has acid soil.  She found a heath spotted orchid and an early marsh orchid. Uncut lawns, apparently, are great for wildlife.  I shall have to remember to inform the neighbours on either side of me when they start to get tetchy about my plot of wilderness.  I don’t know if I would recognize a bee orchid if it popped up in my uncut lawn. A number of years ago an exotic looking mushroom appeared.  A friend of mine took too much delight telling me that the particular species grew best on rubbish tips.  It inspired a poem.

I leaf my way through
Pages of suspects
I scrutinise
Colours and shapes
Size and spore
And then
I see you
Bell shaped and smooth,
Pale and white tinged,
Black gilled and odourless
A mushroom
Can I eat you?
Chop you up
Fry you in butter
And add you to my
Bacon sandwich?
“Inedible”
I guess not.
I toss you
On to the compost heap
Where we will
No doubt
Meet again next year
And have the same conversation.

Crows...

A couple of crows on a garden wall

Dressed in black no colour at all

Covetous eyes on food transfixed

Nuts and berries into lard well mixed

Little birds flit, in fear they flee

As the crows hop closer to the apple tree

A flurry of feathers and a stabbing beak

Stuffed and glutted off they streak

God is my Struggle

It is a breezy day today.  It’s a good drying day.  The clouds may be rolling across the sky but they don’t look rain-pregnant and about to give birth.

I was reading my Bible and doing some thinking and praying, and at the same time watching the tree at the end of the garden.  The branches were dancing in the wind.  Suddenly a pigeon, large and grey, fluttered down and landed on one of the branches.  It didn’t look particularly secure.  The branch wasn’t that thick and the breeze was quite strong and the pigeon and his branch were being buffeted about.  The pigeon skipped to a thicker branch and then to a sturdier one.  It sat for a while and then flew off.

I feel a little like that pigeon looking for a sturdy branch to stand on and weather a strong breeze. 

It is only at holiday times that I can take part in some of the ministries that our church is involved in.  Work times are very busy and keeping my head afloat can sometimes be all that I can do.  One of my holiday joining-in activities is Catalyst in one of the city cafes.  It required drinking coffee and chatting – I can do that!  Yesterday must have been a day off.  It was just the man behind the counter and I.  On the wall of the café is an inspiring poster.  It was a word cloud poster of all that God is.  I read a line “God is my struggle”.  Huh? I’d read it wrong missing out some of the smaller words.  I read “God is aware of my struggle”.

Actually, my spirit read it right the first time – “God is my struggle”. I don’t know anyone who has been a Christian long enough to come up with that brick wall called God!  People keep telling me that faith is simple.  Maybe it’s because I have a theology degree that my faith isn’t always simple at all.

At the weekend I was in Glasgow.  Joe had just finished a two month secondment in Edinburgh.  It was his last week.  The Crofting Bill he had been working on had passed through the various stages and he was done.  A short train journey to Glasgow gave him the chance to catch up with his family and visit his mum.  I joined him for the weekend.

As part of the weekend we had made arrangements to meet up with a friend Joe hadn’t seen for a while.  The venue was a pub.  The TV screen was showing the third set of a Wimbledon match involving Andy Murray. 

My view of the TV screen was mostly uninterrupted until a couple of lads stood between Andy and 1.  You know how it is.  I leaned first to the left, then to the right trying to keep an eye on what was happening while the lads carried on an animated conversation in front of me.   I was also trying to keep an ear on the conversation that Joe and his friend were having.  Multi-tasking at its best.

The game finished.  The conversation between the two men also finished as one of them left to go outside for a quick smoke. The other conversation continued.

“Did he win?”

It was the left behind man speaking.  He told me his name, apologised for getting in my way and then we began our own conversation.  We exchanged the usual pleasantries and then headed out into deeper waters.  I mentioned I was a Religious Education teacher.  This didn’t rate very highly apparently and it seemed like I had given the man permission to grill me about anything religious.  He had some church experience and his granny came into the conversation.  He objected to God on so many levels.  The creation account came under fire.  And the whole Adam and Eve incident. Suffering in the world was thrown into the pot.  I untangled some of the threads and shouted to him above the noise of the crowd and the music.

“So what do you think about gay ministers?”

At this point I remembered that he had come into the pub with another lad.  Were they in a relationship?  He himself was just at the end of his second year of a nursing degree so he wasn’t a gay minister. 

And here is where God becomes my struggle.  I like to point out to people who seem to be stuck in a rut with a response to homosexuality that the Bible has more to say about poverty and how treat the poor.  It is true – but not useful at this point in my conversation.  Those that express very strong views on the subject and use a variety of horrible words and phrases are usually the ones in safe, acceptable, heterosexual relationships.  They are normal and others not like them are abnormal.   

The Bible says stuff.  Most of us know the stuff it says and that’s an end to it.  We draw a line under it and leave it at that. The trouble with having a theology degree is that I know the stuff the Bible says often comes in a context, a cultural context.  The cultural context no longer exists and we live in a different culture so how do we interpret the teaching in view of that?  Some would say it matters not at all.  I used to be a member of a church that insisted women were to stay silent in church – I have tried silence and I am not wired that way.  I don’t talk gibberish, and sometimes I simply don’t talk but sometimes I talk wisdom.  Just because I am a woman doesn’t mean to say I haven’t something valuable to say in a church community context. 

So let’s get back to the pigeon on the branch of my tree being buffeted about.  There are issues that I don’t really have a solid answer to.  My friend in the bar turned out to have a girlfriend on nightshift but I wasn’t about to regurgitate Bible stuff.  He was a person, a human being, with a whole plethora of life experiences. 

“Watch the bird,” said the still small voice this morning.

The pigeon had skipped branch by branch until it was perched on a very thick branch very close to the trunk.  Where the bird chose to stand was very secure.

Where can I stand that is very secure? 

My security is in the character of God.  He is righteousness.  I am to love the things that God loves and He loves people. 

Love – the kind of love that God demands is the laying down my life kind of love.  There’s not list of those that deserve that kind of love and those who don’t deserve it. 

God is indeed my struggle.    He is also my strength… and my answer…my refuge…and my deepest joy.