Of Hearts And Wings

I don't say this to procure sympathy, y'all, but if you have a smidge you're not using and are inclined to send it to me I will certainly answer the door and sign for it. Please remember to throw in some (dark) chocolate. It's just that I have been working pretty hard for the last week. It was like being held hostage by circumstances.

How earnest the craving to accomplish something meaningful before your expiration date.

Enough! Never complain; never explain ... my non-mantra.

But on a much-needed break from transcribing a few days ago I sat outside by the pool, savoring a half-cup of reheated coffee, watching and listening. In the slanting light of the cool spring afternoon a saucy squirrel stopped chasing a friend long enough to prostrate himself on a truncated, sun-soaked branch high in a towering conifer, his vivacious throaty chirps mingling with those of his compadres higher in his tree as well as in neighboring pines. Their late-day badinage was punctuated by the tweets and calls of an equally energetic avian citizenry. I lazed quietly on the swing and thought about many things: the perfunctory nature of life, the healing grace of God, the sad reality of loss, and the amazing power of dreams. And all the work I had left to do.

As I stalled, unwilling to go inside, tuning in to various genres of birdsong (nature's iPod), I was reminded of a long-ago mini tragedy. It involved our third and baby daughter, Erica (who in five weeks will be a college graduate) and, as it happens, a bird (therein lies the tragedy). Erica was about three when one day the kids were playing in the living room of our house in Schererville, Indiana. I was nearby in the kitchen when I heard a loud thunk. Hastening around the corner, I arrived in time to see a good-sized bird fluttering to the ground in front of our picture window. He had flown into the glass and experienced an unplanned detour.

We hustled outside and I crawled around some shrubbery to take a look. He lay on his back, eyes glazed, toes curled, wings askew, in shock but still alive. In spite of my better judgment I decided to "rescue" him. I don't really remember how we went about it but ultimately he lay cozily in Andrew's playpen (minus Andrew and his toys) in the living room, warm under his makeshift blanket, attempting to recover. A buffet of a few breadcrumbs and water was available in case he should revive and crave a snack. Stephanie and Audrey functioned as nurse assistants but the most wide-eyed and helpless aide was Erica. She was just old enough to understand but not old enough to contribute.

It took the bird several hours to die. He did it quietly, all on his own; we were spared the agonizing decision of whether to remove him from life support. I guess there was a shoebox funeral but honestly I don't remember. I had four small children! It is a wonder I'm coherent today.

That night TG and I put the kids to bed as usual and were ourselves asleep when, somewhere in the small hours, I heard sniffling. I went looking for the broken heart. Turned out it belonged to Erica, pale and trembling, green eyes brimming, cheeks sticky with tears. I asked her what was wrong. "I -- I -- I wanted to keep that bird," she explained in a tragic voice, sobbing. I added my sundered heart to the heap and knelt in front of her. "Oh baby," I said. "Don't cry. If you can hold on till the morning, Mama will buy you another bird."

What a parent will say in the middle of the night in order to get a kid to go back to sleep.

But it worked, and I did buy her a parakeet the next day, which "pet" she eventually allowed to die of starvation and/or hypothermia. That's a whole 'nother budgie blog, y'all. (Don't bother calling PeTA ... I'm pretty sure his demise was inevitable and either way the statute has run on that one.)

How short is life ... how glorious its possibilities ... how extreme its desires and how rude its awakenings. How decisive its true-ups and its letdowns. How brief the time to shine, to fly in the open air with the sun on your face. How happy the moments when all seems lost but a viable solution is found. How earnest the craving to accomplish something meaningful before your expiration date. How deep the need for someone and something to truly cherish.

Like the beak of a tiny wren, life is indeed fragile but just as strong as it needs to be ... and perfectly designed for its intended use. Like perfect art, form follows function and vice versa. Eat enough to stay alive but swallow quickly so you can keep on singing to the end.

And never forget: someone is watching and someone is listening. Someone stands by to offer comfort in the death hour. Someone will miss you when you're gone.  Someone somewhere is loving you.

Comments

[Keli]

I don't think there's a parent out there who hasn't had a similar scenario. Your words are lovely.
Incidentally, I'm an old movie buff, and I recently read that actress Jennifer Jones used your same non-mantra!

[Jennifer]

Ah, the lovely Jennifer Jones! She was wonderful in Love Letters and Madame Bovary. I too am a classic movie buff and I think she was most fascinating. I didn't know we shared a non-mantra!