Be Still and Know: the bird feeder

Wednesday, March 25, 2020

the bird feeder

this morning at 5 am, i was awake on the couch reading an article about collective grief. i cried a bit. it's such a strange time. there is a wet, achy feeling, a lonely, unified waiting. an anticipatory unknown. an impending-yet-to-be-revealed. a desire to be hopeful, alternating with the awareness of possible deep dread.

holding these things is exhausting, wherever we are.

the article talked about the legitimacy of what we are all feeling. and the importance of allowing ourselves to feel, rather than react to or judge our feelings. and the value in grounding ourselves. and being in the present. the importance of balancing our thinking, not to catastrophize but to acknowledge great fear with the reality of what is more likely, and to connect with reality through our senses. there was talk of gentle acceptance, continued trying, finding meaning, and having much compassion for ourselves and each other.

yesterday i was in my car in the driveway of this two week rental apartment we are quarantining in, having my monthly call with my therapist. we were talking of similar things. and of remembering the past and having done hard things, perhaps harder things and come through them. this is empowering. we have done hard things. we can again, do hard things.

out of my car window with the cloudy white sky and the end-of-winter trees, i saw this random bird-feeder on a pole stuck in a disheveled looking side yard between the two parking areas. there were a lot of birds flying around, landing in the branches of the bushes beside it and then flying away like they were looking for something. they were mostly plain brown and flew together in a group, silently. they would land and then fly away. there was something collectively lonely about them.

then i saw this guy come from the building behind. he had a cigarette hanging from his mouth and was wearing a workers jacket, the kind with a name badge sewn on it, and black boots and he was carrying a can that looked like a 16 oz beer. i watched him walk over to the small lot wondering what he was doing. he finished his cigarette and walked over to the bird-feeder. the can in his hand wasn't a beer, it was a can of bird seed. he took his time as he filled the feeder and then made sure it was full and hanging properly and slowly walked away. the birds returned, mostly the same brown birds, and one bright red cardinal. they grouped together on the branches, taking turns at the feeder.

in this time of scarcity, in this time of emptiness, his guy remembered gentleness. through grief and fear and lack of thermometers and toilet paper, he remembered the birds in the back of a parking lot. perhaps he found some beauty. some grounding in the feeling of the wind on his face and the cracking branches. maybe it's his routine. his normal. whatever the truth is, for me, for my truth, it gave meaning. it spoke to me of compassion, of remembering, of life continuing amidst the crazy.

while i hole up in this tight space with my kids, trying to create space, physically and even more metaphorically, i will remember this guy and his birdseed. his choice. i will look for the small moments. the clickity-clack of branches, the breeze, the sound of waves, a budding leaf. i will balance that with letting myself feel the sadness of being away from our ugandan home. i will remember that both are real and allowed. that God is in all things, holding all things. in this i ground.