Sandhill cranes flying over a marsh, Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge, Colorado
Last weekend, I taught a creative writing workshop at the Monte Vista Crane Festival, an annual celebration of the return of some 20,000 Greater Sandhill Cranes to the San Luis Valley.
After we settled in around the table in the meeting room at the Monte Vista National Wildlife Refuge, I asked each of the 16 attendees why they had signed up for the workshop. Their answers ranged from “I love nature and want to learn how to articulate that without sounding cliched” to “I’m not a writer but I love to read.”
As I listened to them, I thought about how I would answer my own question. As is so often true when I teach, I learned at least as much as my students.
Sandhill cranes gathering over Blanca Peak, San Luis Valley, Colorado
Why had I driven to the San Luis Valley on the night before a snowstorm was predicted to arrive, in order to donate my time to teach a creative writing workshop?
The simple answer is to support the Crane Festival, an example of a community loving its environment and sharing it (economic development of the sort that spreads the “wealth,” that is the cranes and the wonder of their time in the valley, without consuming it).
That’s not all of it though.
It was an excuse to haul myself out of my twin ruts of writing and carpentry and witness the spectacle of thousands of sandhill cranes on “spring break” in their long migration, feeding and loafing, dancing as pairs court each other anew, and calling in those low, throaty voices.
When I hear the purring, rhythmic call of sandhill cranes, whether in the air overhead or issuing from hundreds of throats in a marsh, I know I am home. The sound is as elemental as the earth itself breathing, and as basic to my place on earth as the fragrance of sagebrush, turpentine-sweet, after a summer rain.
Slithering slowly down Poncha Pass last weekend in a snowstorm.
Although I was born and raised in the Midwest, I belong here, where the Rocky Mountains spear up against skies so clear and intensely blue we habitually squint, where the shrub desert spreads out, dust-dry, to the far horizon. Where spring sounds like sandhill cranes, ravens call in winter dawns so cold your breath freezes in the air, where summers sparkle with wildflowers and buzz with hummingbirds, and fall smells like snow clinging to golden aspen leaves. (And late winter storms sometimes make my road-trips more exciting than I’d like.)
In the end,love is why I drove to Monte Vista to teach, and why I write: Because I love this life and the community it weaves on Earth. This watery blue and green planet and all its inhabitants–huge to microscopic; four-legged, eight-legged, rooted, finned, winged, wriggling or ciliate–have my heart.
My attachment to this place and to life in all its breathtaking diversity is an essential part of who I am, an expression of my elemental terraphilia, our species’ innate love of this planet and its communities of lives.
The San Luis Valley, text by Susan J. Tweit, photographs by Glenn Oakley
As I wrote in The San Luis Valley: Sand Dunes and Sandhill Cranes, my love song to this place with photographer Glenn Oakley,
Perhaps what allows a newcomer to belong to the valley is the same gift that allows humanity to belong to this rare blue planet: an ability to love its miraculous as well as its mundane. This paradoxical desert of water and sand, a place that dances in the wind and echoes with the throaty calls of sandhill cranes, reminds me of what it is to love with a whole heart, to be at home, no matter who I am, where I was born, or how long I will stay.
In ten days, I’ll be back in the Valley, this time leading a group of writers in a four-day Write & Retreat workshop, with a field trip to see and hear the cranes, as well as time to soak, think, write and rediscover the calling of heart and spirit.
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Filmmaker, writer and birder June Inuzuka attended my Crane Fest workshop and was kind enough to give me a shout-out on her blog. A bow in thanks to you, June.
Oh, Susan, Susan. You have mentioned Sandhill Cranes before and I didn’t stop what I was doing to comment. But this time your words hit so close to home I have to. My tender memories, experiences of Sandhills are quite different from yours – but that difference connects us in a bond stronger than the steel that holds the Golden Gate Bridge together. In Texas, the unmistakable “purr” of Sandhills wheeling on autumn thermals high above my long ago ranch pastures were my signal of a time for retreat, rest and renewal. But they stayed high in the sky and one would never know but for the soft purring that they were there, circling endlessly and chatting among themselves, deciding where on the coast 200 miles farther south they would light and winter feed before heading back to you up there in the Rockies. It is that knot of nature that binds us to each other, Susan. And you and I to thousands of others. The thought gives me great peace of mind.
Many thanks for your post.
Karen Casey Fitzjerrell
Karen, What a beautiful comment! Thank you. I can hear “your” sandhills high in the sky over your Texas ranch pastures, telling you fall is here, the days are shortening, time to slow and reflect. What a beautiful signal to let life’s rhythms take you inward…. Nature’s weavings are what connects us, and aren’t we fortunate to have them? Blessings to you and your words!
Ten years of living just over the hill from them, and I’ve never gone to see the Sandhills. (What’s up with that? What am I waiting for?)
What are we talking about when we talk about, Home? It’s certainly not necessarily where we were born, nor where we’ve lived the longest. For you, Susan, I suspect it’s about S&S: sandhill cranes and sagebrush. (And maybe, too, a third S: Salida.) Okay, I’m betting that for you Home is comprised of still yet “another S:” scribbling, aka writing. In a sense that courses deeper than its surface, it’s what Robert Frost said, “Home is the place where, when you have go there, they have to take you in.”
Eduardo, You could go now. They’re still in the valley, loafing, dancing and filling their air with their throaty calls. It’s a magical experience to see them. Get in your van, drive to Poncha Springs, turn left on 285 and follow it to Monte Vista. At the stoplight (there’s only one) go straight south for six miles. Turn into the Monte Vista NWR buildings and follow the signs for the auto tour. Morning and evenings are best. Don’t wait–they’ll fly north soon!
Robert Frost’s definition of home is a mite bleak for me, but there’s truth in it. Home for me is the three S’s you described, and writing too, though for me that springs from the first three, so it’s complex. As is everything in life.
Susan, your “earthy” descriptions of natural things brings me home in a way I’m unable to do for myself. I love them! I also love to see and hear the cranes as they pass overhead from the coast going north and coming back again in the fall. Somehow it soothes my soul. When the skies are cloudless, as they are today, we can sometimes see the cranes way, way up high, but even when the skies are cloudy, hearing them above the clouds stirs something primordial. Thank you for this lovely post. Oh, I just realized that my sister used to live somewhere in the San Luis Valley though I don’t remember the town name. She says she’s been to Salida and thinks it a “pretty town.” *S*
Sam, Thank you. That’s the best of compliments! My mission in life is to rekindle our terraphlia, our innate love for this earth and its inextricably interwoven living communities. As for cranes, hearing them does soothe the soul–and that’s a great way to describe the feeling. I’m glad you have them to thrill and soothe you. How funny that your sis used to live in the valley–in Alamosa maybe? Or Monte Vista? Those are the valley’s two “big” towns, but there are others. Blessings to you….
I’m not sure where she lived, somewhere with a hospital, I suppose, since she’s a lab tech, or was. It’s funny I can’t recall the town, but she lived there only a couple of years or so. I never got a chance to visit her, but she loved it there.
I bet it was Alamosa, Sam. If she loved the valley and she’s a reader, she might enjoy my book, The San Luis Valley: Sand Dunes and Sandhill Cranes. Not to be pushy, just if you’re ever looking for a gift suggestion. (It’s usually available on Amazon for about $12 or so.)
I don’t think it was Alamosa; that doesn’t ring a bell. Of course, with my memory the way it is any more, it could be. Still, I’ve heard of Alamosa and that would have rung a bell right away. If it’s large enough to have suburbs, though, she might have lived in one of them. Now I’ll have to ask her. LOL And I’ll check out your book. She’s a reader, too, so I’m sure she’d enjoy it.
Loved your post and some of the comments. Sandhill cranes are so prehistorical–I, too, love their sound. We get them here in the Wood River Valley in summer, although not in large numbers. We can hardly wait to see them. Please send a message to stay until we get to your writing retreat!
Julie, I figured you’d get cranes breeding in the Wood River Valley in summer. They’re such a treat in any numbers! I hope they’ll still be around by the time of the writing retreat, but we’re about to go into an unseasonable spell of warm weather, which could make them restless. Fingers crossed….
Sam, Alamosa’s not large enough to have suburbs (no town in the valley is–depending on how you count the population, the whole area, which is about the size of the state of Connecticut, has around 50,000 human residents). Now you’ve got me curious!
Okey dokey, Susan, here’s the reply from my sister. Of course, now I recollect quite well where they lived. LOL
“We lived in Del Norte, CO…and Salida is a really pretty town…went there for a wine festival once…had good food and good wine!”
Sam, I didn’t think of Del Norte because it’s so tiny, but I understand why your sis loved it. It’s where the Rio Grande comes out of the San Juan Mountains, with great scenery and close to lots of outdoor activities: skiing, fly fishing, hiking, Jeeping, mountain bike riding and such.
I remember now that she did mention the Rio Grande but I can recall better than remember “cold.” LOL She didn’t live there long, might have not even been a hospital but a clinic tech. Things were a bit rough for the both of us at the time and details were either skimpy or lost in the mists. I surely do wish I’d been able to get up there to visit her, though. :>(
Sam, I understand about details being skimpy or lost in the mists. There are years of my life that I remember only vaguely or can remember very little from. Stress does that to you, I guess. I wish you’d been able to visit her too. Maybe you’ll make a sister-trip together one of these years….
A sisters-togrther trip wold be nice, Susan, but there have been a lot of things happening since then, cancer scares/surgeries, diabetes, lost jobs/homes, etc. Could happen but chances are slim,. But anything is possible. If we do get a chance to go, I sure hope you’ll be home and open for a visit.
Sam, As you say, anything is possible. I’m going to keep my fingers crossed for that potential sisters trip. And of course, if I’m home I’d be delighted for a visit!
Susan, as one of the 16 attendees at your writing workshop, I am so very glad (and grateful) that you drove to Monte Vista and donated your time to teach. I was so inspired by your words that day and continue to be inspired by your writing. I bought two of your books that day and aspire to know the land and all living things as intimately as you do. Thanks for sharing your gifts with the world.
Lisa, Great to hear from you! It was a treat to have you in the workshop at Crane Festival. I’m honored by hearing that the workshop and my writing inspire you, and I’ll hope to work with you more sometime.
I’m jealous! Would love to attend one of Susan’s workshops.
Karen, Hope you can one day! I just finished leading a four-day Write & Retreat workshop in the land of the cranes at Joyful Journey Hot Springs Lodge. You can always keep track of my workshops by checking this page on my website: http://susanjtweit.com/teaching/