Red Bird
Red bird came all winter
firing up the landscape
as nothing else could.
Of course I love the sparrows,
those dun-colored darlings,
so hungry and so many.
I am a God-fearing feeder of birds.
I know he has many children,
not all of them bold in spirit.
Still, for whatever reason–
perhaps because the winter is so long
and the sky so black-blue,
or perhaps because the heart narrows
as often as it opens–
I am grateful
that redbird comes all winter
firing up the landscape
as nothing else can do.
-Mary Oliver
This photo was taken a week ago under somewhat stressful circumstances. I was frantically cleaning when I noticed my dog prostrate before the sofa, gazing under it and whimpering. I got down on my hands and knees and discovered, beneath the sofa, this tiny, gorgeous bird, with its elegant orange chest and downy feathers.
I gathered him into a kitchen towel. He looked at me with clear black eyes. He did not seem injured, but he wasn’t interested in moving, either. So I settled into my rocker on the lanai with the bird in the kitchen towel on my lap while I tried to figure out what to do next.
I called an animal sanctuary and they suggested I put the bird in a high place safe from dogs and cats so that the parents could retrieve him. I had already seen his parents swoop down on the lanai already, so this seemed a likely possibility.
I left the bird on the top of our car, and left my husband on the front lanai to “bird sit” while I went to pick up Anna. When I returned, the little bird was still warm, but his tiny heart had stopped beating. I do not need to tell you that this broke my heart. And I probably shouldn’t admit that I was sorely tempted to take the little bird to my next-door-neighbors to introduce them to my lovely little dead friend. I wanted somebody to look with me at the beauty and fragility of life.
And that is what Holy Week is for me, as well: beauty, sadness, fragility, and also strength. The other night I asked Natalie if she talks to God. She nodded her head. “I say, ‘God, please don’t die.’”
For those who have experienced the death of a loved one, Holy Week can be especially painful. We really do experience (and grieve) the death of Christ and we mourn him in a way that is not totally unlike the way we mourn all our of our beloved ones. There is a funeral procession, mourner’s clothes, a casket, tears.
But there is music on the other side, and it will break through. All of Holy Week, all of Lent, all of life, pushes us toward it. This week, I prepare my heart and train my ears to deeper music. The birds are helping–as I write, the parents of the departed fledgling are cracking seeds just a few feet away. A bright red cardinal is timidly pecking at the seeds scattered on the lanai, all the while singing, singing ceaselessly, firing up the landscape with his song.
amber
5
Perhaps because little Ike is taken with “birdies,” now more than ever I notice them. A cardinal landed in our path in Central Park the other day and Ike excitedly ran after it. It cheers me to know we both have cardinals firing up our landscapes.
I love this poem, and the story of your little scarlet friend is heartbreaking and beautiful.
On another note, I wonder who Natalie is asking not to die, God himself?
jenny
5
Dear Amber,
My new passion for bird-watching helps me to understand another part of you. You have always been on the lookout for unusual birds. You grasp why this kind of experience can be so extraordinary…
When I go to bed at night, I feel excited in the way I used to feel about my morning cup of coffee. Now I could take or leave the coffee. My last thought of each day is “In the morning, there will be birds!”
Also, Natalie was talking about God. She asks him not to die. I changed the quote a bit to make it clearer.