Life is like a ...........

Life is like a river. Every now and then I find myself walking along the Charles River. As I sit and quietly observe, I can hear the sound of the river as it pushes forward, exploring the surrounding banks of every little crevice, sometimes overflowing, but constantly moving on toward the harbor. It is never stagnant.

Life is like a tree. In the winter stripped of all its leaves it sits there majestically with its branches outstretched waiting for the spring to come when all the leaves will return. There’s nothing permanent about a tree, it changes with the seasons.

Life is like a bird. Have you ever watched a bird flying being taken by the wind to places unknown? Years ago, I purchased a wooden trellis like structure to place in the garden. It was useful for any climbing type of vine plant, especially pole beans. The upper portion of this trellis was enclosed and it had a little hole for a bird to enter and use as shelter or a nest, and right below the little hole was a piece of wood that protruded out maybe an inch that was useful as a perch.

I used the trellis for two years in my vegetable garden and never saw a bird enter the little nest on top. The third year was different. One day as I was getting the garden soil ready for planting season, I heard the shriek of a nearby bird as I approached and got nearer to the trellis. I looked around and tried to see where the noise was coming from and I could see two birds flying around nearby. I could readily see that they were directing their shrieking whistles at me. It was apparent that I had done something to them for I was constantly kept under their watchful eyes. It seemed as if they were scolding me. As I got nearer to them I could see that they were very small, much smaller than the sparrows that make my backyard their home.

My backyard is frequented by many species of birds of all sizes and shapes. They live harmoniously among us attracted by the many bird feeders that are out in the surrounding area. Some mornings I’m awakened by an ornithological symphony from an orchestra made up of blackbirds, blue jays, orioles, cardinals, sparrows and my two little ones who have recently joined the alto section. The other day I heard and saw a little woodpecker auditioning for the vacant percussion job. I think they’re going to hire him.

As I continued to walk around my garden, I was under the constant observation of the two little birds. I noticed that they were less vocal as I walked away from the trellis. As I walked back to my garage to get a rake, I noticed one of the birds approach the trellis and enter the hole on top. I decided not to go back into the garden and sat on a bench watching to see what they were up to. It was apparent that I had interrupted their busy work schedule. The two newly prospective parents were busily preparing their nest and I had upset their plans. I was amazed at how they both shared their tireless work load of flying back and forth bringing little twigs, or pieces of straw into their new home. I was amazed at the feverish pitch at which they worked flying back and forth. As I watched enter the hole, I could see that it was perfect for them. It provided great protection for their eggs since nothing bigger than them could fit into their doorway.

Seeing the intensity at which they worked, I decided not to go back into the garden that day. I somehow felt honored with their presence and by their choosing my backyard out of the many others they had to choose from to bring their little ones into the world. The next day I went out and looked in the direction of the nest. There was no activity. For a moment I thought that maybe they decided to move during the night. I went about my business as I tried to finish what I had started the day before. As I looked at the trellis my curiosity got the best of me and I decided to look in the hole. As I got about three feet from it, I suddenly heard a high pitched shrill. I could see that one of the little birds had flown back and was maybe ten feet away from me shrieking, almost as if saying, “Don’t you dare get any closer.” As I backed off the little bird calmed down.

I was taken aback. I didn’t know what to do. The trellis was right in the middle of my vegetable garden and if I let these homesteaders continue to reside there, I was about to lose about 25 square feet of planting area. That meant less produce for me and my family. How dare they do that? Maybe, I can move the trellis to the back corner space of the garden, I thought to myself. But then I envisioned a picture from the Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, Birds, where as I moved the trellis, I was attacked by the hundreds of birds in the area. Then I thought that I would go inside and cover myself, especially my head and face, and then move the trellis. Then I said to myself, why is a man, weighing 235 lbs., afraid of a little bird that soaking wet weighs no more than eight ounces. I spent more time thinking of a strategy of moving this stupid trellis than I spent in deciding which car to buy a few years ago.

My decision was made based on the safety of the unborn. The trellis would stay where it was for fear that moving it would cause harm to the eggs. I hoped that over the next few weeks, the little birds would get used to me and see that I wasn’t a danger to their nest. I adjusted my work routine to make sure I gave the birds their four foot radius of space. As much as they appeared to get used to me, they were forever vigilant and stayed nearby whenever I went into the garden. Fortunately, I found time between their little trips away for me to plant pole beans around the bottom of the trellis.

About three to four weeks later, I started to see a flurry of activity around the entrance to the nest. The birds were now flying back and forth at almost the same frequency when they were building the nest. I could not see what was going on inside and I couldn’t confirm if a blessed event took place or not. The next day as I was in the back of the garden, when I saw both birds fly away from the nest, I got closer and could hear little noises coming from within. The birds continued their frequent trips back and forth to the nest apparently bring food to the little one.

A few days later, I could see two little mouths at the entrance to the nest and I could hear them a little better. They were getting stronger and louder. I was amazed at how tirelessly both parents worked in feeding the little ones. They put my parenting skills to shame. It brought to mind my groaning whenever I had to change one of my boys’ diapers. They were totally committed to their young ones; they even had to take a leave of absence from singing with the orchestra.

Watching these birds taught a few lessons. As I watched the young ones crying noisily, I could see that when they heard the sound of their mother’s wings and felt her presence they cried all the more noisily and opened their beaks wide. After she fed them and flew away again, they were quiet. I could see that these birds had not yet opened their eyes but they had trust in their mother feeding them. They had no doubts about the presence and love of their mother. The lesson here is a confirmation of what the Lord said, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.”

After a few weeks of feeding and caring from their parents the birds got bigger. One day as I putting laundry out on the clothes line to dry (yes, I still live in the ghetto – but I do own a clothes dryer) I noticed one of the little birds crying. The bird had flown out of the nest and was on the branch of a nearby tree. It sounded like it was scared and was attempting to try to fly again. It did eventually fly onto a tree in the next yard and I never saw that bird again. It was interesting to note that with all the help the parents provided early on, now they seemed to not interfere with the attempt at their first flight. They also had no problem in letting go; unlike some people have trouble in letting a daughter or son venture off on their own. They also did not come to the little bird’s aid when they heard the cry for help.

Now there was just one little baby bird left in the nest. The activity around had slowed down and I was watching with interest when the second would take his solo flight. Why didn’t he go when the other left? Was he weaker? Did he lack confidence? Maybe, he was afraid. I learned then that even in nature, everything is different. I would see the little baby bird come out at the edge of the nest opening and look around almost like he was testing the water before going in. There was no other bird behind him to push him nor did I hear a peep out of the parents who if they were humans would probably be whistling to him, “Go ahead, you can do it.”

I wish I had a camcorder with me the day he took flight because it happened right in front of my eyes. I was on the patio right next to a fruit tree which was about 14 feet from the nest when I saw the little one go airborne. I was silently rooting for him as he struggled, flapping his little weak wings. He was flying right toward me and I thought that I would have to come to his rescue. He flew upwardly for maybe six feet and then seemed to lose altitude and was struggling to stay in the air. He was heading downward as he came nearer. Everything appeared to be happening in slow motion. At that time I wished I had a catcher’s mitt thinking that it would have provided a good cushion for the bird when I caught him, but he somehow made it to the fruit tree. If there was an olympic event for sole flights for birds, this little one would get a ten for effort and a two for form. He was only about five feet off the ground and he was holding on to the trunk of the tree for dear life. I continued to stay nearby in case my services were required.

This time the bird was only a few feet from me but I never heard any admonition from either of his parents as they did when I was near the nest. It took a good twenty minutes of struggling and resting until he got himself about ten feet high on the tree. I was rooting for him much like I rooted for my sons when they played Little League baseball. Finally I could sense that he was getting his courage up. He had stretched himself up a little bit taller, almost like a diver readying himself to take the plunge, and all of a sudden flew right across a fifty foot patio and landed on the tree in the adjacent yard. I still watched from a distance. I was worried if he fell, he might fall prey to the cat next door. He waited a few minutes and flew off into another yard and I finally lost sight of him.

Watching these birds, I couldn’t help but think how my mother had somehow unintentionally clipped my wings when I was young. She was afraid that I was going to get hurt especially after having witnessed my first seizure and was overly protective. This was the way she learned about nurturing.

Humans are afraid. They seek to get themselves in a comfort zone. We cling to our children, to our traditions, to our society, to our names, and our own little virtues, because we want permanency. We are afraid to lose the things we know. We are afraid to die.

Do you think that bird was afraid of dying? That bird is much too occupied with living, with catching insects, building a nest, singing a song. They are concerned with living from moment to moment and if death comes, it is all right, they are finished. The fact is that death is an ending, and most of us are unwilling to face this fact. We don’t want to leave the known. So it’s in clinging to the known that makes us fear death.

How could that bird fly if it had to carry all the baggage that we, humans, carry around with us?