Tricky Birds, Loving God

Strange things are happening in the world where birds and I intersect.

Following the lesson on repentance, I was elated that Mama dove did indeed return to the nest and to sitting dutifully upon her young. When she was away, I climbed up on my window to take a peek, and saw two little dovelings nestling away. The natural order restored! Happy happy was I to have received such a blessing, a family of teachers perched on my thatched gazebo!

Last week, as I tap-tapped away at my computer writing a story, I heard a "thwack" on the window behind me, the one next to the nest. Sounded like a bird, so I dutifully--and rather giddily--rose to check it out. What lessons were in store for me today? Sure enough, a little bird lay peep peeping on the ground below the nest. I couldn't quite make out how it had managed to jump and hit the window, but stranger things have happened.

When I got a closer look at the bird on the ground, it appeared to be having trouble righting itself. It also had a completely different appearance than the bird I had rescued the week before. It was tiny. And feathered in silvery grey. The dove that fell last week was rubbery, black, with just a sprouting of feathers. But what do I know about birds? I figured it was just some dove developmental stage where they resemble starlings or something, so I gently scooped up the bird--this time with my bare hands, after all, we had clearly established mutual trust already, right?--and eased it back in its nest with its brothers and sisters. I wished them all well, and returned to my desk, happy that my little bird family was safe again.

Except something in my gut told me to check it out again. So I climbed on the window ledge and got a clearer view of what was going on. There were now THREE baby birds in the nest, where last week there had been two. And one of these things was most definitely not like the other! Mayhem! What had I done? Seems in my overeagerness to demonstrate loving kindness, I had acted rashly and delivered the injured bird to the nearest family, bewildering the lot of them, most likely!

I raced outside and plucked the sparrow or starling or whatever it was out of its unwitting foster home and tucked it at the base of my pomegranate tree for safekeeping, apologizing profusely to all involved.

I assumed all would return to normal. But when I looked outside again a couple of hours later, there were NO BIRDS at all! I went outside to investigate, and there was no sign of foul play from any wild ferrets or the like, but no birds. And even papa and mama bird, who had been exploring the soil of my bathtub planter, flew off as soon as they caught wind of me and went to perch on the sattelite dish on the roof next to me. The pair of them faced me, staring. Accusingly, I think. As in, "There she is. That crazy girl who put the neighbor's kid in our nest. And she had seemed so normal!"

I was pretty rattled at all of this, and somehow sure it was my fault. If only I had used a cloth? If only I had acted in less haste! The meaning was not lost on me. The visiting chickadee or whatever it was sent as a test. Would I act from my loving heart or from my ego which never ceases to hunger for affirmation and puffs up in pride at accomplished good deeds. See God? I rescued the bird again!

Did I stop to consider whether the bird needed help? Or had I merely seized an opportunity to "do something good" in a vain attempt to prove my worthiness?

Yet another lesson from the birds: We must act with wisdom when we set out to help, and make sure that our version of help is what is needed. Just because something worked out once, doesn't mean we should do it again and again. Each situation requires its own fresh analysis, and a thorough checking in with our own motivations as well.

The nest sits empty outside my window. A constant reminder of our abilities to alter the course of lives with the best or worst of intentions, and the awesome responsibility that presents.

Yesterday, when I looked out the window, I saw the doves mating.

God is Dove

A few weeks ago, I decided to take action on my desire to start a meditation practice. I set myself up on a little cushion in the sunshine outside on my rooftop terrace, my back against the wall for support so I wouldn't get distracted by discomfort. I was positioned pretty much directly below the dove nest, which is frequently populated by mama dove. Whether she was sitting on her brood or not, I couldn't tell. Usually, she doesn't seem disturbed by my presence when I putter around tending to my plants or sit on a chair reading quite close by, so I didn't think she'd mind me sitting on the ground beneath her.

So I started my meditation with a little prayer and talk with God. My theme was asking for help in opening my heart to His presence in my life, and to help me have a repentant heart, something I have a hard time finding sometimes when I go astray.

Well, as I was asking this and going deeper into asking this, suddenly there was a great fluttering of wings and a little thump. Mama dove had flown off suddenly and her little baby had dropped out of the nest in her wake, and was lying on the ground in front of me, struggling. I gulped in alarm and ran inside to get a cloth to gently lift her (I remember reading somewhere that the human scent on a baby bird can put the mother off it) and place her back in her nest, talking to her soothingly the whole time. Having done what I could do, I returned to my meditation, but moved to my normal reading place.

And no sooner had I closed my eyes and taken a deep breath, then the lesson came in a flurry of images and comprehension: "Repentance is but an expression of love...love and repentance on a spectrum, a continuum.' My compassion for the baby bird and the mama was born of the universal love in my heart, and made me jump to action to restore the bird to safety and make things right, without thinking. And because of my love and respect for these lovely creatures, I was sorry for what I had done to disturb the peace of this family of birds and corrected my position. This is repentance.

As Mary Oliver says, "you do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves...."

To cultivate a penitent heart, cultivate love. For with love, we instinctively act compassionately and righteously. Self-correction is the natural outcome of a loving spirit that has conquered ego.

Thank you, Dove!

Mr. Big Update

As delightfully cathartic and entertaining as the Mr. Big story was to write, I decided it really wasn't meant for public consumption, and certainly I don't intend for any reputations to be harmed by my ramblings here, so the post has been removed. Maalish. Friends, if you want to read all about it, send me an email.