Thursday, October 29, 2015

In Honor of the Wounded One

I had a long and good conversation with a friend this morning. It was one of those conversations that blesses; the unhurried, sincere kind we all need from time to time. The time was punctuated with periods of comfortable silence. We talked about our spiritual journeys. And it was outdoors, and there were two sweet old dogs, and there was a lake and a weathered bench, and the weather was perfect. I think that put me in the place I needed to be to write this.



As I begin writing I can glance out a window into our front yard. I see a couple of squirrels happily doing what squirrels do this time of year. It is mid afternoon, and there is a shifting breeze. When it blows in one direction it gives leaves from the Japanese Maple at one end of the yard the final push that sends them on their drifting, dancing way from the tree, across the yard, and to the earth. Then the breeze shifts and leaves from the black Tupelo tree at the other side of the yard have their turn and drift to earth to mingle with the maple leaves.



By the way, did you know that leaves don't "fall" from the trees? They are "pushed." Google it.

About ten to fifteen feet outside the window, between me and those falling leaves, hangs our bird feeder. It is old, the paint is peeling from the top, and there are areas of rust growing where there once was paint. The birds could not care less about the paint or lack of it. During the course of a year a variety of birds--chickadees, sparrows, orioles, titmouses (or is it mice?) mocking birds, cardinals and a number whose species I don't know--visit and feed. They, well some of them, seem to enjoy waiting in the loropetalum just beside the feeder until it is their turn to eat. Others prefer to wait in the chaste tree about ten feet on the other side of the feeder. Still others are more like me and don't want to wait at all. Even those who wait will eventually lose patience and challenge whatever bird is on the feeder, and they do so without regard to species, gender or size. In addition to all the visitors to the feeder we see doves, brown thrashers and squirrels gleaning the scattered left overs on the ground beneath the feeder.



A song is stuck in my head. Each time I stop typing to think or look out the window, in my head I hear Paul McCartney's voice, "...Mother Mary comes to me..."

For the past several weeks, we have been seeing a female cardinal with a wounded to the point of being useless right leg visit the feeder. It's probably wishful thinking on my part, but it seems the other birds defer to her and allow her to feed as long as she likes without challenging her for their turn the way they do when others are at the feeder. Even if that is wishful thinking I am going to hold onto it. There is nothing we can do for her except keep the feeder filled with seeds.

Over these past several weeks, we have seen the wounded one at irregular intervals. Sometimes several times in a day, and sometimes we go for days without seeing her. Each time we go for a day or two without seeing her I am saddened. I know one day I will see her for the last time, and I will not even know it is the last time. As of now it has been two days since I saw her. Maybe that was the last time.

"...speaking words of wisdom, let it be."

In sight of the bird feeder.
Elm City, NC
October 29, 2015

P.S. Not long after I wrote the post above I glanced out the window and saw the wounded one at the feeder. She fed..unchallenged!...for several minutes then flew to the relative safety of the chaste tree. When she flew away I whispered, "Peace be with you, lovely lady"...just in case.

"For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be."

***Update***

On October 31, the wounded one returned to the feeder. This time I was able to take a few photos of her. The quality is poor because I was taking the pictures through glass windows and at one point a screen. Unlike previous visits, this time she lingered a couple of minutes atop the crook that holds the feeder before fluttering down and actually feeding. And not unlike previous times, she fed undisturbed by the other birds who had been there ahead of her and who returned later.




That was 17 days ago, and I have not seen her since.

Deep inside me there is a place where, when I go there, I can believe this small, seemingly insignificant life had meaning. When I believe that, I can also believe there was meaning in our two lives having briefly met at the bird feeder. No need trying to figure it all out. I'll just go to that place deep within me and thank the Holy One that her path and mine intersected there. And perhaps I'll hear the voice of Mother Mary gently whispering words of wisdom.

Rest in peace, lovely wounded one.

In sight of the bird feeder
Elm City, NC
November 17, 2015

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