Every night lately, the owls have been making their voices heard in the canyon. One evening, when I got home after dark, I could hear two owls nearby, in the creekbed, communicating in the old familiar “whoo whoo” language. I heard another up on the mountainside.

I love hearing the symphony of the owls each night floating in through my open window. Even if I’m having trouble sleeping, the calming sounds of nature are soothing and make me wish that our world could always feel this peaceful. The moonlit nights in the week leading up to the full moon always give me pleasure; I love to look out over the creekbed or up at the shining boulders speckling the mountainsides. There’s a magical feel to it, lending a possibility to all hoped-for good things, even if only right here and right now.

I wonder how owls have become affiliated with wisdom? Is it because they can swivel their heads up to 270 degrees independently from the rest of their bodies? Is it those big, inquisitive eyes that seem capable of pulling your thoughts straight out of you? Or is it simply their habit of staying up all night like some intellectual member of academia?

I remember my mom writing a little song when I was a kid. She was taking a piano class, as an elective, while attending San Diego State College (not “University” yet) and pursuing her geology degree. The lyrics were as follows: “The wise old owl sat in an oak. The more he heard the less he spoke. The more he heard the less he spoke.”

At the time, it had sounded rather simple and repetitive to me, but I think I understand it more clearly now. As a teacher, I can see its significance. We, as parents and educators, may find ourselves continuously preaching at our children. Sometimes, it seems that the more we say, the less they listen. If all they hear from us is constant noise, then it can’t help but dull their senses. At some point, everyone needs to shut down in the face of anything annoyingly repetitive, just to keep from going crazy. It’s a little like that torturing where they strap you down and simply drip water onto your forehead at regular intervals.

John Holt, a well-known child advocate, teacher, and author, once said that, as an adult, when he noticed his own defensive reaction in response to not grasping what was being taught, he asked, “…Please stop talking about it, and just let me look at it.” Then he thought to himself, Remember what you have learned about learning. Be like a child. Use your eyes. Gag that teacher’s mouth inside your head, asking all those questions. Don’t try to analyze this thing; look at it, take it in.

I’ve noticed, too, that kids pick up on things when they’re interested and care to learn about it. Hammering a youngster with letters and numbers when they don’t have any context for the information begins an exercise in frustration for both student and teacher alike. That’s one reason why it’s important to expose our youngsters to many different experiences: so that when they are learning to read, they can associate the words with some real thing they can identify with. Without tangible evidence in our memories, there’s not much hope of understanding or absorbing anything, not when the task of learning how to read is so new and challenging in and of itself.

On the other end of this spectrum, when we’re older and have been reading for decades, simply flipping through a magazine has the potential to spark a new interest. Perhaps something we didn’t even know we cared about. That’s partly because we’ve had more exposure to life’s experiences and can associate what we read with many things.

Anyway, just last month we traveled to Pennsylvania for my husband’s stepmother’s funeral. She was a wonderfully positive person who was always interested in others, letting them expound about themselves instead of going on about herself. Listening and helping others feel worthwhile came naturally to her. She constantly allowed herself to learn new things. A wise old owl.

I guess I had it all wrong. My thinking was that I had already gone through empty nest syndrome after my youngest went off to college last year. But evidently, there was more to come.

My second daughter moved out when she went to college, but then returned to live on our property, bringing her fiancé with her. A wedding, a baby, and a divorce followed over the next six years. I loved having my family around. It was the best of both worlds. We could be together anytime we wanted while still living in separate dwellings. But now, my daughter and four-year-old grandson have moved “down the hill” to be closer to the conveniences of city life — I guess. And while it may seem like a good move on their part, it’s like torture to me.

In fact, to be honest, it feels downright wrong. Five generations of our family have lived here in the canyon, and for better or worse, this sense of family and community feels absolutely right. I know that in this day and age, our youngsters are expected to flex their wings and go out on their own. But in other cultures, this is not the norm. It could be considered abandonment. In the old days, extended families lived together, with the elders helping to care for the youngsters while the parents went out to work. That whole scenario helped promote cohesion, love, trust, and respect throughout the group — crossing generations. However, these days, if one of our grown children fails to launch, it’s determined to be a negative thing. Either the parents didn’t do their job right or there’s something wrong with the young adult.

But I’m not really speaking of this scenario. I’m referring more to the matter of choice. My idea is that raising kids in a multi-generational family is a much more viable option than attempting to exist in a vacuum — with society’s whims exerting their pressures and without there being a safety net to fall back on. This is true for any one of the group. We all know that it takes a village to successfully raise our young. The goal is to help them reach a place where they can be successful in relationships, be able to provide for their own families…. In essence, to be loving, caring, and contributing members of our society.

Speaking of family groups, we’ve been seeing a group of deer in our area. Sometimes as many as seven. Somehow, I’d like to see our families stick together more as a group — like those deer. Sharing food, cooperating with labor, and recreating together can bring more genuine meaning to these activities. There are just two of us left in the canyon these days, my husband and me. Gardening and growing goodies to share feels a bit empty without my offspring here to share it with. Yes, I know. I’m obsessing over what most people would consider “No Big Deal.” But to me, it feels like a huge loss.

When I lay in bed at night fighting insomnia, the hooting of the owls sends me a mixed message. I feel comforted and grateful to be living in this rural canyon surrounded by the wild sounds of the night. But they also bring a melancholy mood, reminding me of how lonely it can feel here at times. Nevertheless, I realize that I will adjust, eventually, and regroup my inner calm. It’s just that this period of adjustment is not very comfortable. I wasn’t prepared for it.

It’s like the surprise rain we got back in August. It poured down while the lightning struck and the thunder roared. I sat out on the front porch, yelling into the deluge, harmonizing with the rolls of thunder. It felt wonderful. But that unexpected treat of restoring moisture to the earth also created ruinous ruts in the road and front yard. We’ll have to bring out shovels the next time it comes. Having these tools ready can come in handy when the unexpected happens. Such as when half your family moves away. So, here’s to the owls, who remind us how isolated, yet how connected we all are to everything around us.

I started my walk just as the dawning light was beginning to descend into the canyon. The crisp, clear air filled my lungs as we ascended through the sagebrush and newly sprouted green grass. The breathtaking views over Kimball Valley, out toward Cuyamaca and the surrounding ridges never cease to inspire me. Even though I was kind of in a hurry I decided to sit down on a rock, just for a minute. I closed my eyes in silent meditation and immediately got a message from my late mother and grandmother. You see, ten years after the Cedar Fire I’m rebuilding Bamoo’s (my grandma’s) house and mulling over appropriate paint colors. I knew I wanted a shade of dirt, but what? They seemed to tell me that the house ought to be the color of the clay in the clay pit. I opened my eyes. Okay. I don’t have much time, but I better go collect a sample now. I climbed over some boulders and bush-whacked up to the clay pit. Luckily, I had a paper towel in my jacket pocket, so I scooped up fistfuls of the dark red clay into the paper and wrapped it. About 50 feet down the rabbit trail, I stopped when they seemed to indicate that the color of the trim might lie at my feet. I pulled out my last napkin and grabbed a handful of the dark brown, almost black dirt mixed with dead lilac leaves. I was excited. Mission accomplished! My dilemma of color decisions was settled.