When Nature Comes to You

Sometimes the best way to experience the world isn’t to go searching for it, but to sit still and let it come to you.

Lately, the view from my reading chair has become a vibrant little stage. Our backyard feeder has drawn a steady parade of wildlife—bold flashes of blue from the Western Scrub Jays, brilliant bursts of color from the Hooded Orioles, and Purple Finches—transforming quiet afternoons into a chorus of motion and song.

But the most captivating performance unfolds just inches beyond my window. For the past couple of weeks, a young hummingbird mother has been perched on her tiny, beautifully woven nest. Hummingbirds usually seem made of pure nervous energy, yet here she is: perfectly still, patient, and devoted. Watching her quiet vigil - day after day - has felt almost magical.

Life seems to be blooming in every direction right now, renewing itself in real time. It’s a gentle reminder to slow down, look outside, and notice the quiet miracles surrounding us.

John Muir once wrote, “In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.” These days, as I recover from my bicycle accident, my "walks" mostly happen right here from this reading chair—but somehow, the reward feels exactly the same.

If you pause by a window for a minute or two,

Wild things might wander right over to you.

They’ll flutter and whirl in a quicksilver swing,

And hum little songs on invisible wings.

And soon you may find, just by watching it grow,

Nature puts on quite a remarkable show!

This is On the Fly. I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask questions, see you soon.

Comments

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

The Yellow Legal Pad

In this episode, the Art of Refiring July 1st is staring me in the face, less than two weeks away. For years, retirement seemed like something that happened to other people. Suddenly, it's on my calendar. I've been thinking a lot about the dreaded "R-word" lately. Not because I'm worried about having enough to do. Quite the opposite. What fascinates me is this strange paradox: Why does retirement make so many of us nervous, while having a job—even one that regularly drives us crazy—somehow feels comforting? Let's be honest. Most of us spend years complaining about meetings that should have been emails, reply-all disasters, impossible deadlines, and that one coworker who insists on microwaving leftover fish in the breakroom. Yet when the idea of walking away finally arrives, we hesitate. I think I've figured out why. A career isn't just a job. It's a highly structured coping mechanism. For forty-plus years, somebody else has basically decided what I...

The Big Rip and the First Tee

The telescope (Celestron) sits quietly under its cover, temporarily blinded by Southern California's annual meteorological hostage situation – June Gloom. Somewhere above that thick gray ceiling, photons that began their journey before humans appeared are streaming across the cosmos, only to be intercepted by a marine layer that seems to have veto power over astronomy. Instead of observing the universe, I find myself imagining – The End of Everything (Astrophysically Speaking) by physicist Katie Mack. According to modern cosmology, the universe may eventually end in a Big Rip, a Big Crunch, Heat Death, Vacuum Decay, or some other catastrophe that sounds suspiciously like a rejected heavy-metal album title. Astrophysicists spend their careers calmly discussing the possibility that reality itself could suddenly cease to exist because a quantum field had a bad day. It's a remarkable way to start a Saturday morning. One moment you're contemplating the ultimate fate of spacetime...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

On The Fly

Search This Blog