From 0 to 190 in 365 days; the evolution of a converted birder

Northern Harrier. ©Teresa Shumaker

It wasn’t too long ago that when asked about my opinion of birds, I would wrinkle my nose and say they are filthy, noisy animals that are nice to look at, from far, far away. I have always been more interested in mammals.

Fast forward to today where I am now an avid birder, go birding at least once a week, do volunteer citizen science projects, and keep a life list of what bird species I have been able to identify from sight or sound. (My number currently sits at 190.)

At this year’s bird count, not only was I a participant, but I was one of those birders who assisted the other birders with identifying species. I couldn’t help but reflect about how far I have come.

Flashback to the previous Christmas Bird Count in 2012; it was not only my first bird count, but my first bird outing, ever.

I grew up knowing about the birds my parents knew, but we never went out with the express purpose of seeing and identifying all the birds we saw.

This is a Northern Pygmy Owl. The photo was taken on an
iPhone looking through a spotting scope. ©Teresa Shumaker

In 2012, I became bird-curious and joined the local Audubon chapter. I joined to find a group of animal people, like myself – which is sometimes hard to find — and to do that, I had to put up with looking at birds.

After a few meetings, I became interested in the big bird count that happens every year across the nation around Christmas time.

Joining in a nationwide count – one that has been happening every year, for 114 years – sounded like the place to be. Little did I know that it was a birding marathon, that being ill-prepared for the all day event I would arrive home that night ready to pass out whilst standing. However, I found something I enjoyed doing that physical fatigue could not ruin.

Nope, it still wasn’t the birds. It was hiking all day, with binoculars in hand, talking about animals, and looking at everything that moved – mammals, reptiles, insects, and birds alike. (Although, we only counted the birds.)

It was exciting, and I was thrilled to be getting my nature fix. Over the course of the year, I saw many exciting things, rainbows over the lighthouse, a fog rainbow, the sun rise – which I wouldn’t wake up for on my own, I need adventure to pull me out of bed in those early hours.

I saw a skunk hunt crab on the beach and spent two hours with three humpback whales. I even got covered in whale snot!

Then, little by little, I started picking up how to identify different birds species. I would get excited when the birding experts would say, “I’m not too sure what that bird is.” (Which is a great cue that you will soon be seeing a rare bird, or hybrid, by the way).

I think the day I finally admitted to myself that I had fallen in love with birds, was the day I sat down to begin my life list. (For those that don’t know, a life list is a list of all the bird species that you have seen or heard and have been able to identify yourself.)

Now, making a list wasn’t a giant leap for me, I love making lists. The giant leap was that birding had connected so many things for me: my love of jovial competition, list making, learning, adventure, nature, meeting animal people, working on puzzles. All of those things now had a keystone joining them together, birds. In addition to those benefits, when you take a moment to really look at birds, you are rocked back by the amazing things they can do.

They aren’t just some dumb creature. They are what the line of dinosaurs became, they travel the world, put up with an amazing array of hardships, see in a wide spectrum of light – wider than us – and lack of light.  They migrate overnight, can sleep on the wing, have the capability to make a range of sounds that even machines can replicate, and so much more.

This Heerman's gull swooped right in front of me, so close
I couldn't get its wingtips in the shot. Birds are exciting to
photograph because they move so fast and in all directions.
©Teresa Shumaker

Some species have intelligence levels, emotional levels, and complex relationships that have rivaled those of mammals and science spends just as much time looking to birds for answers as any other group of animals.

When sharing these reasons, I truly heard myself, and I couldn’t hide it any longer. I am madly in love with birds.

I challenge every skeptic, if you don’t think you like birds, give it a year and see if they can make a convert out of you, too.

Just in time

Finally, it's finished! And not a moment too soon.
Click below to see my 2014 calendar in my new Zazzle store front.

Birds of Mendocino by SnapDragonstuff

Bushtit

Bushtit. ©Teresa Shumaker

Of all the birds I have seen, this bird has to be the cutest. It is super tiny, a little bigger than a hummingbird. It travels in flocks that will descend on a tree right in front of you, not caring whether you are close, and they forage by placing their body in some of the most comical ways.
My personal favorite is when they hang upside down, decide there isn't anything they want, so they just let go of the limb and burst into flight as they somersault in midair.

Hurry up and wait

Patience is a virtue that ran short by the time I got to the front of the line at the Virtue Distribution Office. So waiting makes me as twitchy as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

We waited almost a year to get our orders for our next assignment, and now that we have them, time is moving in slow motion.

On January 1, we will be moving to South Texas, and I am as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve.
Until then, I am trying not to have the entire house packed two weeks before the move. But keeping busy is difficult. I lack the focus to sit still for any long period of time, because I have the nagging feeling that I should be DOING something that involves heavy lifting and shuffling stuff about.

To quell the urge, I have rearranged the furniture, several times, cleaned and re-cleaned everything in sight. My home sparkles with unnecessary cleanliness.

The downfall is there seems to be a correlation between my impatience and clumsiness. When the first rises, so does the other.

Now I am trying to tow the line between getting stuff done and not knocking the house down around my feet. It is a precarious path, where sometimes I have to move intentionally, like a sloth, putting all my focus into one movement so I still have stuff left to move in a couple weeks time.

For example, I shattered a porcelain decoration while unplugging my laptop the other day; now I unplug things slowly.

Frost

©Teresa Shumaker

©Teresa Shumaker

 I wish I wasn't such a cold weather wimp and could get out more often to see the beautiful designs the frost makes. But it is hard to argue with a warm home, and a warm breakfast instead of piling on clothes and gear to brave the cold. Brrr.

I lucked out on this outing. There was still plenty of frost in the shady parts of the trail. I would tromp through, take some pics, then quickly retreat to the sunny portions of the trail to thaw.

©Teresa Shumaker

©Teresa Shumaker

Homemade kitty coat

Sylvia is now 11 years old and with this recent cold snap she was insisting I hold her, a lot. I finally realized that she was having a hard time keeping warm in our drafty apartment. 

I set off to find something that can keep her warm when I am too busy to donate body heat. 

I first tried heated rice bags, she thought the smell of microwaved dry rice was terribly offensive and proceeded to avoid it at all costs. 

I researched electric warmers, but couldn't shake the fear of an electrical fire. Scratched that idea. 

I went to the local pet store and found a nice foam bedding that is supposed to retain more body heat and redirect it back up to the animal, but my "Princess and the Pea" cat turned her nose up to it as well. 

I looked at buying her a jacket, but they only had ones for dogs and the arm slits seemed too small.

So I resorted to the next best thing, a homemade outfit. I cut the sleeve from a sweatshirt and fit it over her. Then I felt for her legs and drew a line where I wanted to make the arm slits. After a few modifications, we now have a kitty sweater. 

She keeps giving me looks that makes me fear she is plotting my emanate demise. However, she is no longer cold. Success!

I believe this look means, "You will pay for this, human." ©Teresa Shumaker.

Blue Whale bones

Sheila Semans, Blue Whale skeleton reconstruction project specialist for the California Coastal Conservancy, places a piece of the knuckle of the right dorsal fin. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Ribs and spine. ©Teresa Shumaker.

Through the vertebrae. ©Teresa Shumaker.

Early last summer, I was given the wonderful opportunity to document the 73-foot blue whale skeleton as it was unearthed from its grave.
Four years prior, the young adult female washed onto the shore after suffering life threatening injuries from surfacing beneath a large ship's propeller.

Vertebrae. ©Teresa Shumaker.

 The unfortunate incident did lead to some positive science, however. Parts of the whale were removed for research, and the skeleton was removed and buried in an undisclosed location for natural cleaning. The intent is for the bones to be reassembled and put on display in the future marine science and education center in Fort Bragg, CA.

Until then, volunteers reassemble the bones so student groups can see them up close.

It is mighty humbling being so close to the bones of the largest mammal to grace our planet. It is second only to being able to see them in the wild, which I was fortunate to see this last September.

Their spouts (what happens when a whale exhales) are monstrous compared to other whales and dolphins.  From the moment when the spout first emerges to when you see part of the fluke, time seems to lag as what seems like miles of back roll, slightly emerged at the surface of the water.

The sound of their exhalation has a harmonic echo to it, telling of the enormous size of each lung. It reminded me of the sounds the brachiasauruses (brachiasauri?) make in the movie Jurassic Park. Truly majestic animals.

I would like to give special thanks to Sheila Semans who invited me out to see the assembled bones one last time before I move. Thank you.

Each bone is labeled for reassembly. ©Teresa Shumaker.

©Teresa Shumaker.

Through the spinal cord cavity. ©Teresa Shumaker.

Right dorsal fin. ©Teresa Shumaker.

©Teresa Shumaker.

©Teresa Shumaker.

©Teresa Shumaker.

Did you ever stop to think... and confuse everyone around you?

Ivy and moss on a dead tree. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

While birding the other day, this tree made me stop in my tracks. As I stared at it in wonderment, my birding companions thought I had spied some interesting bird. Once they realized the tree was empty, and I was just lost in reverie, they moved on. It happens often. 

But, while I stood there transfixed, I couldn't help but wonder why. Why did this capture my attention for so long? 

I found beauty in the contrast of light in the ivy leaves and the dark trunk, and the contrast of colors from the vibrant blue sky to the muted greens of the moss. Moss is meant to be dreary, and even the brilliant morning sunlight that makes everything else vibrant couldn't coax any color from those drab tree-drapes. 

Also, I love what it symbolized and literally is: Out of death, there is life. What can be thought of as waste to one, can be something to build upon for another. 

I am a compulsive cleaner and organizer. In my youth I would gaze into the woods, or any scene, and think about what I would remove, add, or clean up to enhance its beauty. (Yes, I was an odd child. I am acutely aware of it, thank you.)

But, now that I have learned more about the world, those dead trees that I would have torn down, I now see as something the woodpecker cherishes, or another plant needs for support.

Just because we might not see the value of something, doesn't mean it's not the entire world to someone or something else. 

What a shame it would be if we had the complete power to make the world as we see fit. 

We have done enough damage with the tools we have already. 

This isn't meant as an attack or insult on humans; just an observation. We share this dilemma with every other animal that becomes too smart or successful for their own good — we just operate on a different level than the others do. 

Is it just me?

Banksia. ©Teresa Shumaker.

Is it just me, or do the seed pods from this Banksia tree look like the baby version of the plant from Little Shop of Horrors? 

They even look like they can carry a tune. 

Creepy. 

Side note: My husband is convinced it is because of that movie that I am terrified of dentists. Steve Martin did make a terrifying dentist, but Bill Murray's masochism didn't help, either. 

(I watched this movie so much when I was a kid, the VHS tape broke from excessive wear.)

Changes on the horizon

Last week, the Coast Guard sent us orders for my husband's next post.

Two weeks prior we were sent a list of 11 places and asked to put them in order of desirability.

Four were in Florida, one on Charleston North Carolina, two in Michigan, another in Ohio,  one in the middle of nowhere Maine, one in Texas and one in Kodiak Alaska.

I was overwhelmed. How do you go about researching into 11 different places?

Simple, you don't. You just make a list and turn it in and let the cards fall where they may.

There were places we really wanted, and there were places we definitely never want to go, but in the end it is out of our hands, so hoping too hard in either direction would just be a waste of energy.

When the day came, Matt left to get his orders. As I waited for him to come home with the news, I was thinking of all the places we didn't want to go, and how they have positive aspects too.

No matter where it was, I was going to be supportive and positive. (I like to think I am an optimistic pessimist. I expect the worst, but try to see the brighter side of the less desirable things.)

Since I was so completely focused on the worst, I was at a loss for a reaction when he said, "We are going to South Padre Island, Texas."

A = South Padre Island, Texas. Google Maps image. 

I had no expression on my face and couldn't find any words. He was momentarily concerned. It took me a long time to finally react, because I kept waiting for some shoe to drop, or to wake up from a dream.

We were hoping for Florida, because I have never been, it is warm, and the job he would be doing would was exciting. We feared the Great Lakes because I dislike cold weather. But Texas, 5 hours from our home town, being able to see family on the weekends, I never dreamed we would be so lucky.

Not only that, but Matt's job will be busy and he will learn a lot. And SPI — which is how people on craigslist refer to the Island — is one of the birdiest (that's totally a word, spellcheck) places in the continental U.S.

To add to the awesomeness of the place, I discovered there is a University of Texas down there with a great biology program. Hello Bachelor's degree. (I have put off finishing my bachelors for years.)

I have never been a religious person, but was brought up Catholic, and the concept of Guardian Angels has always comforted me. My mom said she prayed to her grandmother — our family's guardian angel — and asked that we be stationed somewhere that will give us the best opportunities.

I can't say with any certainty whether I am a believer or not, but it fills my heart with joy to think about. One thing is certain — I am extremely excited about our next adventure.

We will move on Jan. 1, the same day Matt moved to the Mendocino Coast. I can't help but notice how that seems serendipitous. The day of beginnings and endings is a perfect day for a move.  Stay tuned for pictures from Texas in 2014.

Chipmunk success

Chipmunk ©Teresa Shumaker

After two years of trying to catch a picture of this little guy, only to have them evade me or get a blurry picture, I got the shot. This chipmunk was sitting in the sun on a warm morning after a chilly night, and he didn't seem to care that I was present — as long as I kept a predetermined distance. 

I love the colors in his coat. 

Context: changing things from shocking to normal... Or in some cases, the other way around

Eared Grebe stretching. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

 Context is something we can often take for granted, but when it is missing the effects are drastic. This picture above is a photo of an Eared Grebe, stretching.

When I saw it unfold in real life, I thought it was a cute moment. Then, when I pulled it up in Lightroom I was surprised to see an image of what looks like a drowning bird. I actually hesitated to publish something that looks so stressful.

There is even something about the way the light is striking the features on its face that makes it seem in distress.

But, as you will see in the photo below. This little guy is perfectly fine.

Post-stretch feather ruffle. ©Teresa Shumaker.

Spiderwebs

©Teresa Shumaker

©Teresa Shumaker

 Some people think I dislike spiders, because earlier this year I was bitten by one and almost hospitalized from a staph infection from the wound.

The event did give me a healthy respect for spiders and a need to keep them out of my house. But, I love spiders and it didn't change how much I like looking at spiders and admiring their webs.

I just can't keep their webs in my windowsills anymore.
:-/

Life is about adjustments, I guess.

©Teresa Shumaker

©Teresa Shumaker

Wolly Bear Worm.... caterpillar

Wolly Bear worm in the morning dew. ©Teresa Shumaker

Do you remember the folklore that a woolly bear predicts the oncoming winter?
This was my second thought when I saw this little guy, so I decided to look it up. It seems there are some scientific theories where the longer the brown middle section is the milder the previous winter was, because worms who were born during an early spring, due to a mild winter, have more brown than those born during a late spring.

However, the Weather Channel quoted a man from the Woolly Worm Festival in North Carolina who said the winner of the woolly worm race (yes, they race these fuzzy worms) has an 84.5 percent accuracy rating. Not to shabby.

Whichever it is, these little caterpillars are tons of fun to look at.

Back to my first thought. When I first saw him, covered in droplets, I wondered what it must be like to walk around weighed down with all that water on his coat. And does it make him cold?
Brrr! No wonder he needs that thick coat. Can he shake it off, if he wanted to?


Interesting fact: no one seems to agree on the name of this little bug. Some names I found were Woolly Worm — spelled with one L, and with two — Wooly Bear Caterpillar and combos mixing up all of the above.

Although, scientifically speaking (and still a rough generalization) caterpillars have feet and worms do not.

New possibilities

It has been a long wait. My husband is in the U.S. Coast Guard and has been waiting for orders to his next duty station for what seems like an eternity.

We still don't have them. But we will, soon.

Most likely we will know where we are heading next sometime around mid-November and when we need to be there (It could be anywhere between mid-December to July). Recieving that news was a sharp contrast to the vague-hazy-almost-news we have had for the past few months (By which I mean two years).

After hearing something will be happening soon, my anxiety revved into high gear, as if it were preparing for a drag race, and my stomach dropped on the floor.

It just got real. We are moving, somewhere, and sometime soon.

I love new things, and cannot wait to explore a new part of the U.S. However, during the move I have to battle my panic attacks, skittish digestive track and a grumpy cat who prefers howls in protest anytime I take her somewhere new.

I can't wait to do this with kids.... (Note the heavy sarcasm.)

Either way, it's an adventure. Whether it is good or bad — unless it is boring — there is always an exciting story that comes from it.

And whether we land in South Florida, Texas (fingers crossed), the Great Lakes, or Alaska, I know it will be home as long as my best friend is by my side.
 (I meant my husband. The cat doesn't like to go hiking as much. Although, I am glad she will be there too. Except for the mornings, when she wakes me up with a loud meow and pokes me in the eye with her paw.)

Paying attention - not my strongest trait

I enjoy birding because it teaches me to be more aware of my surroundings — And how to use my words to point out something instead of flailing at it.

Birds dislike flailing. Apparently some humans dislike it, too, or so I have been told.

I was perusing through some old photos I took in Texas before I moved to California and found a surprise in what I thought was a group of gulls.

What I originally assumed to be a flock of gulls.  ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Two Caspian Terns hiding amongst the gulls. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

 Now that I see them I wonder how I could have possibly missed them to begin with. But, I believe that's the lesson. Sometimes we are only seeing what we expect, and not what is actually there.

Reflections of a zoo keeper

One time, I had the unfortunate luck of passing by the capuchin exhibit when an egret, sitting in the tree canopy, expelled a pellet and it landed on a little girl visiting with her sister and grandmother. (A pellet is the undigestible parts of a bird's diet that collects in its stomach to be regurgitated later.) The poor girl was covered in pieces of crawfish shell and muck.

As she looked up at me, with shock on her face as pellet parts dripped from her hair, I bit my tongue to choke down a laugh. The juxtaposition of her getting splattered with something so unpleasant, yet resembling those movie moments when someone, who just got hit with a cream pie, stands in shock trying to compute the situation, was too funny to ignore.

Then, while I was giving them directions to the nearest restroom, a dead fledgling fell, or was tossed out of the tree, onto the other small child.
I bit my tongue to hold in my reaction. The pain of holding back laughter caused me to tear up. Perhaps to the lay person I could have looked choked up with remorse, but in fact it was my macabre sense of humor that was trying to escape.

To compound the problem, the giggle-loop was in effect, where the sheer thought of laughing at an inappropriate moment is itself funny, which adds to the hilarity of the situation.

Each funny thought collectively builds momentum leading to a tipping point where the laughter can no longer be held in.  When the laugh is finally released, it has the force of a maniac, making you seem incredibly insane, which only adds to perceived humor of the situation.

It is a dangerous thing. People have almost died of asphyxiation from the wake of the giggle-loop's laugh exhalation.

My mind reeled for something to say and  'I'm sorry,' was the only thing I could utter. Nonetheless, it seemed so ill fitting at the time, especially with my lack of earnest.

I am sure I seemed downright insane or suffering from some unknown pain during that conversation.

Bird poop is the worst

As I learn to become a better birder, there are many common birds that fellow birders are often surprised I am seeing for the first time.

Such as this Cedar Waxwing, which can be seen in almost every single state of the Continental U.S.
©Teresa Shumaker. 

They are called waxwings for the red waxy substance on their wing. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

I blame bird poop.

Growing up, I was fascinated by all animals. Anything that moved, I wanted to learn more about it.

Then I worked as a zoo keeper. And I had to clean up after six macaws.

Macaws, at least in captivity, are the equivalent of demon spawn. They are mean, wretched creatures that I am pretty sure plot all night for nefarious ways to make their keeper's next day as horrible as possible.

And one way they accomplish those goals is with their quick-drying-concrete poop. (Not to mention their high pitched calls, which they enjoy making as close to your ear as possible. Once, two staged an attack, one jumped down and bit me on the shin, while the other made its way for my hand when I wasn't looking. I almost lost my thumb and still have the scar on my shin.)

Then, thousands of cattle egrets made the zoo their rookery. For several months each spring, the grounds would be pooped on by this swarm of water waders. Once grey asphalt was turned white, and in the thickly covered areas we had to wear face masks to survive the cleaning of their unsightly excrement.

So I quickly developed a dislike for birds in my early 20s and thus stopped being fascinated by all things birds.

I shifted my focus onto mammals and reptiles and didn't look back for years.

To this day, if you ask me which I would rather do: Clean a bird cage, a toilet, or a diaper bin, I would have to weigh my options for a long time. Replace bird cage with grizzly bear exhibit, or spider monkeys, or even bats, and I will quickly jump on those options before I go anywhere near something that was defiled by a human.

Humans gross me out in ways that many animals couldn't even dream. But birds draw a very near second place.

Thankfully, after almost a decade's reprieve from having to scrub macaw egesta, I have come full circle and returned to admiring birds of all walks. I just prefer to see them in the wild, and not get pooped on.

Aside from their foul excrement, birds are alright. I guess the same can be said about humans, literally and metaphorically. One just needs a reprieve from shoveling their excrement to truly appreciate them.

Cold weather wimp

Being from South Texas, I have an aversion to cold weather. I groan and pout and glare from under my leaning tower of blankets.

Give me 110 degrees with 90 percent humidity and I am perfectly content, as others drop from heatstroke.

However, if the thermostat goes below 75, my extremities quit producing heat, my hands and feet turn to ice. Tempt fate by going below 50 and I am rocking myself in a ball trying to fight off hypothermia.

(Matt is convinced I am actually a reptile.)

Cold hands and feet are not a human only problem. ©Teresa Shumaker.

When I moved to the Mendocino Coast I had quite a climate shock.  The temperature rarely moves more that 20 degrees between night and day, and between seasons. Most days it hovers around 55 degrees, even in the dog days of summer.

What does change is the temp in my apartment. During the summer, the sun will bake my apartment to a nice, toasty 75 to 85 degrees. In the winter, it can drop to 45 degrees, and my cat, Sylvia, will collect frost on her coat. (Ok, maybe not the frost part. But, she does fluff up and hug the heater, showing she too has the thin blood of a South Texan in her veins.)

When I woke up this morning, I began my fall ritual of fighting the severe dislike of being blasted with cold air once the warm blankets are removed. Sylvia leaned her fluff-ball figure into my throat for warmth. Everything about the cold, crisp air is evil early in the morning.

After piling on a ton of warm clothes and shuffling around my apartment looking like an Eskimo, I finally gave in and turned on the heater for the first time this season.

When it came to life, it kindly told me it was only 56 degrees in the house. Well, I felt pretty dumb for my self-proclaimed martyrdom in my Artic apartment. I was sure it was 36, nearing freezing.

Being half numb from the cooler temps, it all feels the same to me.
What can I say? I'm a cold weather wimp.

How Sylvia weathers the winter here on the coast. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

National Parks

I was sitting in the dentist office today, planning a trip to Point Reyes National Seashore in my head, when I realized... due to the government shutdown the park is closed.

Rats.

Then I remembered how many people I have heard complain about how unfair it is that the park isn't open for them to visit. Sure, it's a bummer. But I am more sad that the people who work there are furloughed, not knowing when they will get a paycheck again. I think of all the employees I met when I visited Yosemite National Park this summer, they too are dealing with this uncertainty.
In the recent rough economy, many people don't have reserves to weather this storm, and others just didn't plan for it.

Across our nation, there are families with jobs that are worried about how they will pay to keep a roof over their children's heads and food in their bellies.

I am worried for all those people; I am worried for our nation.

But I have faith that we will pull through. We are the children, although many generations removed, of those who left governments they didn't agree with — from many nationalities — and set out on this wild continent to make a new home.

We Americans are not perfect, we have made mistakes, done bad things and good. But, when it comes down to it, when you strip away our creature comforts and back us in a corner, we have a unique blend of true-grit-scrappy-ness, and we will make it through even these dark times.

Here are some photos I took this summer at Yosemite.

When I look at them, I can't help but think about how uncertain it must have been for the pioneers who had to travel this land, not knowing what they will find, not having any security of a grocery store to shop at, a doctor to call when sick, or even a secure place to sleep at night. Nothing was guaranteed.

It steadies my heart to remember that and gives me a firm foundation to place hope on.

Half Dome. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Vernal and Nevada Falls. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Mirror Lake. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Each day I fight, most days I win

I self diagnosed myself with anxiety when I was a teenager. 
I haven't gone to a doctor for an official diagnosis, mainly because I don't want the affirmation of a professional... or a prescription drug.

Instead, I set out on a life-long mission to learn how to live with, moderate, and ultimately overcome my anxiety.

Overtime, I learned to embrace anxiety as a constant.  

Drawing inspiration from the poignant phrase, "Do one thing every day that scares you," in the song "Everybody is free (to wear sunscreen)," I decided the key to winning the battle with anxiety is to embrace it. 

To reap the benefits of exercise, one has to get up, workout, suffer through the pain and sweat. The paths to fitness and less anxiety are similar. To improve, I spend part of the day scaring the bejeezus out of myself, fighting the desire to flee, and rediscovering that the thing causing my anxiety wasn't so bad after all. 
The benefits are my world grows, everything seems possible, and the remaining part of my day is anxiety free. 

However, some scary things are harder to battle than others, and some days even the simple task of stepping out the front door is a challenge. 

Imagine a bubble around yourself. When you are within the bubble there is no anxiety, but once you step outside your insides become as trembly as a chihuahua on ice. The trembles can make you hot, or cold, or both at the same time. Your palms sweat, the mind races, and your stomach ties into knots threatening to eject everything you ate, possibly taking your stomach lining with it. 

Some days you can travel far before you find the boundaries of the bubble, then there are times when it is waiting to smack you in the face as you wake up. 

It's variable, and I don't always win. But, when I do, the victory is sweet. 

Yesterday, I won. 

I went scuba diving in the Pacific Ocean with a friend. I have been diving for almost ten years, but this was my second time in the ocean. 

The ocean and I have been on a slow acquaintance period for the past two years I have lived on the coast. I spend days staring at it, sometimes go on it on a boat, but rarely jump into its midst. 

My caution isn't from a fear of water or the ocean — actually, I am a water bug and love the ocean. The excess caution is my manifestation from knowing how unforgiving and dangerous those waters can be. I like to take it slow with scary, dangerous things. 

During the paddle out to our dive location, an epic battle raged in my head between the scaredy-cat and the adventurer in me. 

My mind regretfully reviewed all the things that frightened me from past dives — getting sea sick once, getting hypothermia (mild case, don't worry).  Plus, with the added possibility of large great white sharks (very low possibility, in reality), the extra elements of 58 degree water, and getting tangled in kelp  (I am not a fan of unidentified objects touching me) my vitals were going through the roof.

The scaredy-cat, unfortunately, is chattier of the two and rattled off phrases like:
"Nobody will hate you if you go in," "You should just cancel the trip, you put yourself at risk going out this nervous," "The water is too cold," "Quit kidding yourself, you're really not cut out for this,"
 "Go back home, where it is safe and warm."

The voice grew louder, and my heart rate increased. If it wasn't for strong will and deep breaths I would have high-tailed it home. Instead, I took some advice from a wise cartoon fish and 'kept swimming.' Once on the bottom, my fretting faded away and I was rewarded with sea stars, sea cucumbers, and my favorite thing in life: Adventure. 

Sea stars. ©Teresa Shumaker.

20-legged sea star. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Sea cucumber. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

Working out puzzles

Pygmy nuthatch. ©Teresa Shumaker.

Sometimes, what a bird isn't is just as important as what it is when trying to identify the species. As a beginner birder, and not a California native, there are many common species that can leave me scratching my head in confusion when trying to identify them.

This pygmy nuthatch did just that. As I was sipping on my coffee and watching the chestnut-backed chickadees hop around the pine trees in my backyard the other morning, a large flock of nuthatches descended upon the forest.

A pygmy nuthatch searching for seeds in the pine cone. They stick their needle-like beak in the cracks to dislodge the seed. ©Teresa Shumaker. 

At first, I thought they were another type of chickadee. They were about the same size, engaging in similar behaviors, and the calls sounded similar.

Well, first thing that gave me a clue they weren't chickadees was the lack of a black beard, or throat patch. Once I got closer, I discovered that the chickadee call I was hearing was coming from some chickadees deeper in the trees, behind the nuthatches, leading me to believe the sound was coming from the nuthatch instead.

After looking through my National Geographic bird field guide, I learned some neat things about these interesting birds.
Whether they are going up or down a tree, they go head first. To survive the winter, they roost at night in a hole in a tree, huddling up next to each other — sometimes up to 100 at a time. (Which gave me the mental image of a big feathered bird pile, with many little bird faces sticking out of the opening.)

As I watched this group, the individuals seemed to have a familiarity with each other. I noticed two types of foragers right of the bat; explorers and followers. The explorers would land on a tree and begin foraging, and the follower would land almost on top of the previous bird and start doing exactly what he or she was doing. The first bird, getting almost elbowed out of its chosen site would move on. Seconds later the follower bird would do just that — follow the first guy. From branch to branch, the process was repeated with many pairs of followers and explorers.

It was hard not to anthropomorphize and project possible emotions, as the explorer birds appeared to get rather annoyed with the mimics, sometimes starting a squabble amongst them.

But then again, nobody likes a copycat. The annoyance could be universal.

Hanging out. An explorer on the left, follower on the right.  ©Teresa Shumaker.