Author Jay Sturner

Below are three short, hand-written poems found in the back of my copy of Way of the Peaceful Warrior . Speak what is true Through mouth or mind or dream Through action, poetry, intention Speak what is true And truth . Your truth. ________ An albatross Glides across the water Visits islands now and then But mostly stays at sea _______ Did I ever meet you? Will I ever, again? Beyond the mist, the veil, I hear the heartbeat of the universe. Yes, I've always known you. And you, me.

Sometimes you go to the mountains. Sometimes, the mountains come to you. We certainly didn’t expect to find a mountain range out on our front porch this morning. But we did, stretched across the back wings of a moth. Say, is that an eagle I see soaring through the peaks? Is that Frodo over there? so much happens in the intricate beauty of a moth’s wing Photo: Red Twin-Spot? My son and I consulted our field guide and that’s what we think it is.

I'm not often moved by European Starlings, being troublesome as they are to our native wildlife. But today, considering the extreme weather, all things are equal : Negative twenty-three degrees. Birds puffed up and deliberate. I watch the feeders from my window, safe, but concerned. What survived the night has a long fight ahead, an ancient struggle as pure as the arctic snow. Today, I harbor no disdain for the non-native starling — that single, disoriented bird I saw fumble across the snow, losing its wild symmetry. European Starling by Bill Ahlgren (From the book HEARTVINES )

Snow rests heavy upon the dim blue landscape, tracing and draping myriad outlines. Branches droop in repose as juncos dash through wild-haired shrubs. The waking mind is coaxed into a slow wandering — silence the treasured vehicle. The serenity placates, perhaps medicates. We inhale what we can of it, for morning quickly smothers the predawn hour. Soon it will heave jewels of sunlight across the white blanket, shrinking blue shadows like summer puddles. Snow drips and falls to the warming wet earth. We begin to stir within the transition, lured by its guiding hand. Soon our thoughts will speed, looping, toward the waking day. Routine will take hold. But before we step too far into the busyness, let us sit, selfishly, with one more cherished thought of a loved one, near or somewhere far; or the soft gray juncos, chasing and chattering like lovers' hearts; or a path along a bookshelf, all those soul-building stories and poems; or something else, anything else, to help temper the wor...

Photo by Shanin Abreu (From the book HEARTVINES )

I want to be that junco on the powdering of snow beneath the pine. I want this cup of hot chocolate to last forever. When I opened the kitchen window a bunch of snowflakes blew in, and one got caught in a spider web. I want to believe in magic; I want to have faith that our plush tomte will keep us safe from harm. The blue-gray days of the season are closing in. I want the strength to slay a waking demon or two. Hope is found in the web of winter stars. Photo by Jay Sturner (From the book HEARTVINES )

In the rising warmth of the morning, while playing in the yard, my son Garion found a green caterpillar on the patio table. I offered it my finger—which it grabbed trustingly—and the two of us watched it crawl across my hand as if trying to make sense of the new landscape. By now Garion was inside the curtain of the moment, trying to make sense, in his own way, of the odd squirt of life in my hand. All the while I told him what I knew of this "baby" insect, not so unlike himself—a small being on a singular quest for food and growth; a life destined to blossom into something amazing. Time was spent passing the critter between hands of father and son (and once to and from our noses, which is funny for grown-up and toddler alike). I was glad for the opportunity to teach my son something new about nature, and more so for the lesson it afforded in compassion—for we were gentle with the larva, and never addressed it as a lesser thing, or called it "gross" when it pooped o...

This morning a Hermit Thrush returned to our yard for the season. I heard it— skreee! —as my son Garion set off on a mini-quest for rocks and acorns. A falling leaf—russet, corner-curled, emptied of summer's light—floated soundlessly over G's tiny shoulder. Hands in pockets, I stood listening to the harvest-time voice of my favorite bird, and watched as my son absorbed all the good of the world. And then it started to rain. Indoor creatures we became, once again: our human habitat within windows and walls, a cozy jungle of wired distractions. But with plenty of toys, books and music, too. More good things of the world! Outside I imagined the thrush flicking rain off its wings, its body perfumed by a northern forest of hemlock while engaged in a mini-quest for bugs and berries. Though shy, hidden, and non-existent to most, this feathered thing is no less important, or needed, in life. It, too, is part of all the good of the world. Something my little man will one day come to kno...

One time, at a red light, a dragonfly appeared in front of my windshield. For a few brief moments it lingered there, carrying sunlight on its back, before zipping away. Dragonfly by Dean Turley (From the book HEARTVINES )

In birding there are wonderful moments. They happen all the time. But sometimes there are multiple moments that accrete into a singular experience that defies words. “Magical,” perhaps? Cheese. But why bother searching for words where none are needed? Anyway, such an experience was had in Knoxville as I sat in my car at the end of a silent, forested road to listen for a whip-poor-will. It was just before dawn. And while I sat there, glancing at a dark blue sky bordered by black trees, I was lulled into a peaceful, almost dreamy state of mind. I was about to close my eyes when suddenly a pair of Barred Owls began conversing in the woods to my left. The exchange was brief, yet energetic. Owl romance? Maybe. But I won’t speculate as to what they were discussing; that is their business. For a time things were quiet again after the owls stopped vocalizing (with the exception of a cardinal, whose periodic yawning of a few notes sometimes broke the silence). And then, somet...

I love when first-of-spring things mingle with last-of-winter things. This morning I’ve juncos, finches, and siskins zipping about the yard—birds of winter not quite ready to hit the breeding grounds. Beyond them, down in some wet spot in the woods, newly awakened chorus frogs cry out for mates. The mates will come, and an orgy will ensue—you can be sure of that. And then there are the less noticeable beauties (all around us, if we’re looking) such as this Brown-shaded Gray, watching from the back deck as I go about my morning. Soon this cryptic moth will flitter off to do whatever it is such quiet, mysterious things do (probably sleep on a tree somewhere, if I know anything at all) and I’ll be sorry to see him go. Thankfully he’ll return at dusk—along with the bats and Barred Owls—when he and others like him cling to the house like little impermanent ornaments to bask in the artificial light. Brown-shaded Gray by Ken Childs (From the book HEARTVINES )

All our indoor plugs and wires . . . they'll never replace those glorious branches outside the window. Sunrise at Muirhead by Walt Lutz (From the book HEARTVINES )

A nature-filled weekend in Knoxville: male frogs and toads vocalizing for the ladies; woodcocks in courtship flights beneath the clouds and stars; a gorgeous Fox Sparrow amid a flush of juncos; fresh layers of sun on swelling tree buds; hepatica blooming on a woodland hill; the air an arrived exhalation of the coming spring.

A view from Foothills Parkway in East Tennessee. As the sun lifts layers of mist off the morning hills, thrushes begin to stir in the woodlands. Mother Nature tosses handfuls of jewels across the yawning trees, bringing forth grosbeaks, tanagers, butterflies, and warblers. Later, as the sky turns its best blue, proud hawks and lazy vultures will join the wind in its dance over the waking valley. By then, I will have gone my own way. (From the book HEARTVINES )

The wind blowing through the treetops reminds me of crashing waves on a distant sea; leaves blowing down the trail resemble skittering crabs. High overhead, the clouds swirl like cream in a magnificent cup of tea, while nearby a box turtle follows my heel with his ruby eye. Photo by Christopher Collins  Box Turtle by Kathleen Marie Garness (From the book HEARTVINES )

Day is a bright open eye. Some days are blue, others green or brown. Night is the closed eye covered in stars.

I’ve been forced to address my soul in these tree-covered hills, this region of NASCAR and Civil War ghosts . . . guitars, banjos, and fiddles saddled to the wind . . . mockingbird mornings . . . moonshine sunsets. Do I miss Chicago, with all its steel beams and fragmented forest? Car horn mornings? Cell phone sunsets? Where I was constantly jabbed in the sides by strip malls and cars breathing down cars' necks? The patchwork wildness seemed okay at the time because it was all I’d known. But now I live where it spreads out like a big whoosh against the horizon. So what’s more to say? The soul’s no longer jabbed. It can breathe.

During lunch at the Morton Arboretum today I sat and watched two bluebirds , six Cedar Waxwings , four goldfinches , and a pair of Mourning Doves pick through the exposed grass in a sunlit patch of snow. A Red-bellied Woodpecker called out from the nearby trees while two Fox Squirrels , tails bouncing, chased each other in the distant woods. No computers, no cell phones, no other people. Not a penny spent. Heaven.