The question in my mind as I walked up the side of the elevated sand mound was clear.  Could I experience a deep nature connection conducting an hour long sit spot right in my back yard?  I thought the answer was yes, given that nature was most likely just as rich and complex in my backyard as in some remote and wild park or forest. 

It was an important question for me. I hoped to demonstrate that the sit spot method of connecting with nature was convenient, comfortable, easy and safe.  I wished to show that it was possible to obtain the physical relaxation and the mental, emotional, and spiritual rejuvenation that came from time in nature right in the convenience of one’s own yard.

But, I had doubts as well.  Maybe my backyard sit spot would turn out to be a big dud—boring, nothing happening, too tame, no real experience of nature.  Maybe it was necessary to journey to a wild setting to fully experience nature.

First Light Chorus

Setting up my camp stool atop the sand mound that stood in the middle of my backyard, I sat down, pulled out a notebook, and drew a circle for my first ten minute observation. 

It was 5:07 am. Brutally early, but necessary if I wanted to be present for the mid-summer sunrise.  At least it had been convenient to tumble out of bed, put on layers to withstand the morning chill, stagger down to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, grab a folding camp stool, and walk a quick 90 seconds across the yard to reach my destination.

I had heard distant bird songs wafting in through my screen window when I woke up at 4:45, a reminder that birds begin to sing at first light, which commences around 45 minutes before sunrise.

Now, as I settled in and listened with full attention, I was blown away by the sheer volume, intensity, and variety of the morning chorus.  The busy lilting chatter of the house wrens nesting in the nearby garden set the tone. A Carolina wren added its loud, pure tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle song. A robin voiced its cheerful, cheerily, cheer-up, cheerily, cheer-up.  A cardinal sang a clear whistled, purty, purty, purty.  A catbird sang its jumbled medley of song snippets and a phoebe sang its namesake, raspy fee-bee, fee-bee.

Crows cawed in the distance.  A goldfinch looped over the yard singing per-chik-o-ree.  A treat came when two chimney swifts—those usually high flying, insect catching birds often described as flying cigars due to their blunt shaped body and sickle shaped wings—flew right over me singing their unmistakable twittering chirps. A mourning dove cooed softly. A red-eyed vireo sang its metronome robin-like song over and over. 

The many bird songs—eleven different species in all—blended, overlapped, cascaded and intertwined while rising and falling in volume.  It occurred to me that this first light, pre-sunrise part of the morning chorus might just be the best part.  And I made this discovery right in my backyard.

Whose Property?

Sensing a presence I turned to my left and spotted a deer grazing peacefully in the corner of the yard near an old stone wall.  Spellbound, I watched the deer, attired in its summer brown-tan coat, step slowly forward on its graceful slender legs, bend its long strong neck down and nibble at the green grass, an almost mystically beautiful scene in the soft morning light.

Entranced with the view and eager to capture it with a photograph I foolishly jerked my camera up.  Then, when I tried to snap a photo it was too dim for the autofocus. As I struggled to adjust and re-aim the camera the ever-wary deer, probably surprised and maybe annoyed to notice an intruder on its morning grazing ground, lifted its head, stared in my direction, turned, and quietly slipped back into the woods.

I coached myself to let go, relax, breathe evenly and return to an open focus.  Then, I spotted movement in my peripheral vision.  Turning slowly, I spotted a small brown creature stepping through the yard, pausing, looking down at the ground, sniffing, scratching the sod, and moving forward.

What was it?  A ground hog?  Binoculars slowly up, critter in focus, I saw the neat black eye mask, the bushy ringed tail, the pointy ears, and the gray-brown fur of a raccoon.  Oblivious to my presence, it ambled across the yard, paused to check the ground, and on two occasions dug into the ground with its crafty finger like paws.  Preoccupied with its morning feeding, the raccoon continued across the yard and scuttled off into the brush.

Glancing toward the garden I saw two rabbits peacefully munching the grass.  A minute later a gray squirrel ran in front of me, skittered up the trunk of a big maple, paused on a branch and let out a loud challenging chatter.  Were his comments directed at other squirrels or at me? Two more deer edged into the yard and began to graze peacefully.

I had lived with the assumption that this yard was “my property.”  After all, I paid for it and had a deed to prove it.  I mowed the yard, raked the leaves, and picked up the fallen branches; but witnessing this early morning parade of animals, my assumption of ownership seemed tenuous.  The real owners and users seemed to be the animals that in the privacy and quiet of the early morning exercised their rights of ownership.

Time

I drew a fresh circle for my third ten minute interval.  As often happens during a sit spot, time perception seemed to change; simultaneously slowing down allowing me to take in details, and flying by as I became present-centered creating a sense of timeless time.

The animals, the deer, raccoons, rabbits, and squirrels belonged to this timeless time.  They had been using this land long before my house was built.  I glanced over at the house, a two story colonial, built in 1811. I considered it old, but in this moment, in the presence of this perennial parade of animals, the house seemed recent, like an upstart. And I, who had lived in the house for a mere 17 years, was even more of a recent arrival.

My gaze centered on a grape vine growing on a trellis near the kitchen window.  Ah, I thought, I have a picture of that same grape vine from 1935 when depression era unemployed architects were hired by a federal government to do studies of historic homes, make drawings, and take photos.  The grapevine was at least 87 years old.  I tended the grape vine now.  Somehow this felt like my connection to a greater time scheme.

Changes

The sun, hidden beyond the ridges, valleys, forests, and fields, had risen.  I couldn’t see it, but I noticed the steady increase in illumination, saw the pale blue sky filled with cotton puff clouds, and noticed a tint of pink to the south east.

The morning bird chorus changed, less loud and insistent, making it possible to pick out a few new performers.  I detected the mournful pee-a-wee song of the an eastern pewee, the nasal ank, ank, ank call of a white-breasted nuthatch, the sharp volley-like tsee, tsee, tsee, tseeo of an American redstart, the insistent teetcha, teetcha, teetcha of an ovenbird, and the descending whinny of a downy woodpecker.

I thought there might be even more singers out there so it was a good time to turn on my Merlin bird song app and run a recording.  I watched the sonogram of the calls and songs unfurl across the screen of my phone in real time.  I listened and saw the song of a robin, Carolina wren, catbird and cardinal light up in yellow each time they sang.

And then Merlin detected the song of the wood thrush.  I listened carefully and there it was, from the woods beyond my property, the beautiful, flute-like, eee-o-lay song, one of my favorites, a forest song, a gift to hear in my own back yard.  Thank you for Merlin.

Catbird on a Tin Roof

The leaves on the trees hung motionless.  There was no wind.  And then I noticed that the old rope swing hanging from a big sugar maple was swaying back and forth.  What the heck was going on?

I spotted a catbird on the ground near the swing.  I knew that again this year catbirds had a nest somewhere in the thick privet bushes along the edge of the yard.  Occasionally I saw one fly up from the ground when I walked through the yard or heard them sing when I tended the garden. Now, sitting still atop the sand mound, I had a chance to watch this catbird in action. 

Catbirds were one of my favorites, plain charcoal gray in appearance, but members of the mimic family along with mockingbirds and brown thrashers.  And while these latter two are more disciplined songsters accurately reproducing song and sound snippets, catbirds are the free jazz members of the family taking all kinds of  sound snips, jumbling them together, never repeating phrases, and punctuating the medley with cat like mews.

The catbird in front of me had most likely wintered along the Gulf or Caribbean Coast, flew north, and selected my yard in early May.  I watched it bounce along the ground, hop up to a table, and then flit over to a chair as if these were its pieces of yard furniture.  And then, sure enough, it flew over, landed on the swing and set it in motion.  I couldn’t help but smile. Whimsical characters these catbirds with personalities to match their free jazz singing style. 

I looked across to the metal roof of a barn next door.   A catbird perched at the peak of the roof and a few seconds later was joined by another.  Maybe they were patrolling the boundaries of their territory, maybe enjoying the view, or maybe simply having fun.

Trees

My gaze settled on the line of tall trees alongside the driveway, trees that I had walked and driven by hundreds of times, trees that I had mentally labeled  as “big trees.”  But now, as often happened during a sit spot I began to see things more vividly.  Each tree had a different shape, different branching system, different configuration of leaves, and even different shades of green on the leaves. 

On the right stood a big black cherry with a thick mass of dark green narrow leaves, an oblong shape, irregular, almost zig-zagging branches that would now be laden with small green cherries that would ripen into burgundy berries much beloved by the birds, fruits that in former times would have been made into tart tasting jellies, jellies to bring a reminder of summer warmth to cold winter mornings.

Next to it, a tall American elm with its distinctive high-divided branches creating a lovely vase shape.  Its dense leaves were dark green. This was a survivor tree, one that had somehow eluded the Dutch elm diseases.

Next to it a pair of white ash trees, a tall oval shaped, trunks divided low, cross shaped branching, paired grass green leaves.  These were two healthy ash trees, not yet affected by the spreading emerald ash borer, but surely at risk.

Furthest to the left, closest to the garage, stood a medium tall, round-topped butternut, with open Y-shaped branching and yellow-green leaflets.  In late summer it would drop big butternuts to the ground that would be quickly grabbed by the patrolling gray squirrels and buried for later eating.

Each tree stood out; each with its own personality, each with its own story of growing, blooming, fruiting, providing for others, and self-protection.

Reflections

Another sit spot session had zipped by.  Sitting in stillness for a full hour, surrounded by a vibrant community of birds, animals, plants and trees I felt content, grateful, and fully alive.

As I folded up my camp stool, stepped down from the sand mound, and headed to the kitchen to brew a cup of morning coffee, I reflected that I was able to experience a nature connection in my back yard.  Probably the same would apply to most people in most backyards.  I also realized that my view of the backyard had changed forever.

This sit spot took place in Bethany, PA on June 22, 2022.

The Merlin Bird ID App created by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology is a free download for your smart phone.

If you conduct a sit spot in your backyard and are so inclined, please feel free to write up your experience and email it to me.  I will be glad to share your write up on this blog.

You are welcome to read about more sit spots and wander walks on this blog or in my book, The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning available at Amazon.com and from Shanti Arts Publishing.

The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning: Harvey, John: 9781947067592: Amazon.com: Books

The Stillness of the Living Forest, John Harvey (shantiarts.co)