There’s a ten-year-old boy in my life (not my own, though nearly just as dear) who is obsessed with birds. A couple of weeks ago he downloaded a bird call app on my phone, and we listened to the various warbles and calls, chirps and trills. On another occasion, he made a habitat for a wooden bird—a snowy egret, he informed me—in the backyard.
“Do you think he’ll need any water?” I cautiously asked.
“We get plenty of water there in the summer,” he calmly replied.
This curious obsession with birds can be found in my own life, too. I smile when geese block my car’s path. It’s a common occurrence in my Midwest town, where the geese simply do not migrate. They stake their claim, nesting in medians and laying enough eggs that someday the local geese population just may exceed the human one. They fly above me on hikes, honking loudly to announce their arrival, and touch down loudly on the roof of the building where I work, a chorus of thumps until all have settled. They leave their waste on sidewalks and prompt the local hospital to plant huge plastic swans among the landscaping.
“I think they’re real, Mom,” said Margaret at a recent appointment.
I look at the seams where their heads meet their bodies, the color having worn off slightly in places where the weather has been too much. I’m not fooled by the display, but they do seem to have hoodwinked the geese.
I’ve noticed too, an increase in the number of hawks around town. A few years ago, this was a new phenomenon. Now, it appears almost commonplace. Once seen only above highways, they now soar overhead during my morning commute, chasing away crows and following me in. Earlier this year, a hawk ate an entire squirrel in my front yard, much to my children’s delight. I sat watching it, this natural predator, and wondered how it felt living amidst telephone lines and noise and pollution. I wondered why it had come to my front yard, of all places, when it could go anywhere else for its dinner.
And we can’t forget my family’s long held belief in cardinals as emissaries from the beyond. I rarely bank on superstitions but I’ve been known to see a cardinal and suddenly come to the conclusion that everything will be okay.
On my weekly hikes, I see blue jays and woodpeckers and robins and to my surprise, two prehistoric looking wild turkeys who ran through the woods near my path, their pace frantic and their presence startling.
These feathered creatures often remind me how human I am. I have a few bad habits, it’s true. No drinking or smoking or too much swearing—though my seven-year-old may disagree on that last one. I sometimes scroll on Reddit too much, or waste time looking at homes for sale on Trulia, even though I regularly tell my children to bury me in the backyard.
Chief among the list of shortcomings is my ability to spiral about the future. When I’m checking my investment returns, watch out. Past choices and future considerations can trigger existential doom. It’s a consistent heartbeat, this constant desire for more: more security, more safety, more something. Unlike the birds, I have yet to figure out how much is actually enough. I want it all, a vulture at the feast.
In those moments, I, like my ten-year-old friend, turn to the birds for confirmation. They are alive and well and terrorizing young squirrels and hissing at passersby and their lives are moving forward without a care for our human concerns. They effortlessly swoop and glide on the wind while we effortfully push through each day.
I find it ironic that birds, with their ability to take flight without thought, are what remind me to stay grounded. But I’m grateful for the daily reminder that unlike me, they are not sowing or reaping or storing away in barns. They accept each day as it comes and continue to thrive. That is, all but the plastic swans. Just don’t tell Margaret.
Yesterday at church we sang a song I love, that like birds, reminds me to “be where my feet are.” It starts at 21:45 if you care to listen.