Patience in a Blind

Meditation Waiting for Wildlife

As September arrives in Northern British Columbia, sitting in a blind in a remote woodland location has brought many years of joy and sense of pause for my family. Moss and lichen cushions the ground, old logs weathered and bleached blend into the earth, and new growth of poplar, buckbrush, kinnikinnick berries, and pine sprout alongside, proof of Nature’s tenacity to regrow. The air is crisp and cool, and the sweet musky fragrance of plant-life is soothing. Sounds drift in layers: owls hoot, wolves howl, as bear, deer, moose, and elk mating season draws near.

It is a time for patience as we quietly sit in anticipation of the drama about to unfold. Our hearts beat with expectation, eyes alert for the subtle signals; a flicker of movement, an odour in the wind, or the sharp crack of a branch breaking in the distance. Time seems to stretch and slow when concealed within our carefully constructed blind, fashioned from interwoven branches and brush that mask our presence. Inside this shelter, we are hidden and eager participants, invited to quietly witness the unfolding secrets of wildlife activity, to breathe deeply, and to remain alert, cameras ready for whatever wonders Mother Nature might reveal.

As twilight deepens, a hush settles over the clearing, gentle and profound. The sounds of daytime gradually fade, the chatter of birds diminishes, and the wind slows, whispering a soft rustle of leaves. Shadows lengthen, and a tranquil stillness emerges, as if the forest itself pauses to take a breath, awaiting the quiet mysteries of evening moose to appear, to browse on new growth.

Then a lone grouse cut across the sky, its wings slicing through the pastel light like whispers in a breeze. Each wing splitting the sky’s hues of blues, greys, and ambers, creating a gentle ripple through our memory. A singular remarkable flight summoning echoes from past moments cherished forever. The bird’s silhouette, sharp and fleeting, stood out against God’s ethereal canvas, a reminder that the thrill of the outdoors is measured not in days, not hours, not weeks, but in precious moments, where even the flight of a solitary bird can leave an unforgettable imprint on the mind.

The bird flew over three decaying trees standing like sentinels, their twisted skeletal structure deeply rooted in the ground, a vision in silent contrast to the renewing forest behind. Bare lifeless branches reached upward like ancient arms frozen mid-gesture. Time had stripped their bark and foliage, exposing the raw vulnerable wood beneath, yet something in their stance spoke of steadfast resolve: they remained, unbowed, refusing to yield their upright place in the clearing. It was as if they clung not to life, but to purpose!

In a final gesture of gratitude their decaying mass now provided birthing hollows for squirrels, owls, flickers, wood ducks and other critters. The cavities carved by slow decay are cradles, nesting sites for creatures who would one day depart and return, weaving their own stories into nature’s circles of life. In this way, the three trees had not simply sprouted, thrived, grew, matured, and passed on; they had transformed. What was once solid and whole now held softened space for renewal, their presence rooted the clearing afforded a sense of continuity, connecting the past and future through the tangible legacy of shelter.

The sunset had watched similar trees grow and die a thousand times, their bark stripped but their purpose intact. Seasons had passed in endless succession, winters covering their roots with snow, springs dressing the ground with the greens of moss and renewing foliage, summers alive with the sun’s warmth, insects, and birdsong. Then autumn’s cloaking the world in a golden shroud before snows set in again. Through it all, these three trees bore silent witness, guardians now of a birthing place in a landscape that had learned to adapt, regenerating a new pine forest.

Still, in the last minutes of daylight the clearing is alive with moose and sound, the chatter of sparrows, the whisper of wind through and poplar greenery. The air vibrates with the calls of creatures unseen, and the sun nourishes a vibrant habitat with the movement of countless beating hearts. Under low branches, foxes dart, deer and moose awaken, and rivulets have sung a constant lullaby, weaving everything together in a cradle of abundance even as trees have been harvested. This is a wondrous haven where Nature moves at its own pace, measured not in hours and minutes but in cycles, the migration of birds, the blooming of wildflowers, the return of rain and thaw. The sentinels stripped and weathered, bore scars of countless seasons. Their roots, gnarled and stubborn, burrowed deep into soil, anchoring it against storms and droughts. Their silhouettes stark against the backdrop of a younger thriving forest. Together, the three decaying trees framed the limits of the clearing, marking the boundary between what was and what might be, between loss and hope.

We imagined the stories the sentinels could tell from the sanctuary of our blind: generations of birds nesting in their hollows, insects burrowing beneath their bark, mushrooms blossoming in the shade of their roots. We imagined their decay, nurturing the soil, fertilizing the undergrowth that is rising to take their place. Nature wastes nothing; even loss becomes the foundation for new growth!

Among the renewal greenery, poplar and pine saplings reach upward, stretching toward the sun while animals large and small forage here and there. Wildlife and young trees know nothing of the old sentinel’s loss, only the exuberance of regrowth. Nature is anchored by the passing of the old sentinels, and inherit a legacy of monumental proportions. The clearing becomes a site not only of memory, but of hope. The youth of young trees promise that renewal is possible, that life persists, that even in the shadow of the old tree’s demise, the forest finds its way forward.

To sit unnoticed in the clearing is to be humbled. The grouse takes flight, and our heart lifts with it. The trees stand their ground, and one’s spirit finds strength in their endurance. The voices of the living and the traces of the departed mingle, creating a symphony that is both celebratory and solemn. The woodland, in all its complexity, is a reminder that every loss bears the seed of return, and every memory, cherished or painful, feeds the soil from which new life springs.

In that place, the boundaries between memory and reality blur. The thrill of the outdoors is measured not only by what is seen, but by what is felt, by our memories that linger long after the grouse has vanished, by the silent watch of the trees, by the chorus of sparrows that, while absent, still sing. The clearing is a microcosm of the wider world, a space where the old, new, and gratitude co-exist, where the cycle of life is played out not in span of hours rather in fleeting moments under the sweep of wings and the hush of wind. The flight of the grouse over three sentinels is a meditation, a reminder that renewal is not only possible, but inevitable. The trees, though stripped and silent, continue their vigil, offering shelter and wisdom to those who come after. The clearing remains, alive with sound and memory, a sacred intersection where the past and future touch, and where echoes linger, stirring my heart to remember, to grieve, and yet, to rejoice in what has been.

Safe Travels,

Gord