All That Commotion

I could have predicted Virginia’s second big snowstorm of the season – let’s pretend we’re not inundated by 24-hour weather forecasts – I still could have predicted it yesterday from my kitchen table as I looked outside and saw how eagerly my birds had emptied the feeders for the second time in one day. I usually fill the feeders once a week in winter time, which keeps at least two dozen varieties healthy and convivial. They moved so quickly, so bravely – the smaller birds alongside the larger ones – and made so much commotion in the task of shoring up their little bellies for – something! – They seemed to scream this word all day long.  Something!

I sat on my own warm perch in this kitchen, sorting through piles of clutter – my effort to sort out the old and make space for the new. I flushed out 15 years of writing “ideas” stored away in drawers, cabinets, and boxes – scraps of paper, half-filled notebooks – all those many things I didn’t have time to write but wanted to save for another day. Clearing clutter can never be done by plan – the spirit must arrive and move one to the task – and the spirit never announces itself, can’t be predicted, unless in the voice of dull uneasiness, muffled commotion from within, or restlessness from beneath the rubble of – something!

Many of these ideas have passed their prime; much of it is not really “writing,” just anger scratching away, pen against paper – and that is the stuff to get rid of in order to make way for the new – and then there were those few good seeds. I’ve taken those seeds out of hiding, replanted them on new piles, and put them in new drawers . . . for another day . . . and then I noticed the empty feeders . . .

I read many years ago that one feeder will host about 200 birds, some of which will not fly south for the winter, having been convinced of yearlong staples right here at the summer home. Such a person who disregards her winter feeders for even a short while may inadvertently cause the death of hundreds of birds – more so if she is prone to host, and neglect, many feeders at her home.

I enjoy filling the feeders, usually in the quiet of early morning, noting birds’ seasonal preferences and what they often leave behind – someone doesn’t like raisins, I might think aloud – or, someone was inconsiderate right here at the feeding station, probably a starling . . . only Dixie, the neighbor’s dog, can hear me. Yesterday afternoon, however, I am sure the birds heard me too – for no sooner did I return to the house, attend to the window – but to witness a descent of bluebird, finch, wren, tufted titmouse, cardinal, nuthatch and more – as though they’d been waiting for me – watching me as I trudged and filled and cleaned for them. From that perch in the sky, someone watches me!

The last time it snowed, I saw one odd goldfinch, probably a youngster or old man, who had puffed up his feathers and tucked in his head so as to look like an old tennis ball – olive green with streaks of dirty yellow – and he had nestled himself on a bed of sunflower kernels at the kitchen window feeder. I gently tapped on the window, fearing the worst – no response – after an hour-long nap, this trusting bird poked his head out, nibbled a bit of warm seed from beneath him, and lazily left me to wonder at the habits of birds.

Madame Bluebird is the one I most admire – and I hope she admires me – for she has the face of a very intelligent dolphin. She will direct her face at me in wonderment and gratitude from her spot on the window feeder where she’ll delicately swipe one seed at a time. She’s very careful and a bit skeptical too – I’ve seen her cock her intelligent head to the side as though to say, But why do you do this? In the springtime, she’ll repeat this routine dozens of times – and I know that every morsel she gathers goes straight to her nest of babies. I want to tell her that by autumn her babies will fly away and she’ll have time to write that book of hers! Sometimes, from that look on her face, I think she has plenty to tell me too . . .

These are the days which greatly advantage earthly people.
The others are full of vain noise, ineffective, and produce nothing.
Every man will have his favorite day, but few know about them.
A certain day is sometimes a stepmother, sometimes a mother.
But that man is fortunate and blessed who, knowing all these
Matters, goes on with his work, innocent toward the immortals,
Watching all the bird signs, and keeping clear of transgression.

(Hesiod, “The Works and Days,” lines 822-828)