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)

Stopping Cold

Thursday, October 22, 2009:  I’m always amazed at my ambition – 10 books to read and all 21 of the journals to review and organize for the writing of  "The ---------------," this book I’m writing. That’s what I brought with me to Gethsemani, my quiet weeklong retreat – these foods for thought – as though gluttony were the goal of spiritual silence.

Fortunately my work ethic is less powerful than whatever force in me said NO to all that. This is my last full day here and I’m not even sure what I’ve done this week to fill the days -- but I feel brimful nevertheless.  Was it that sunrise that took an hour to bare itself yesterday? Was it the sunset that seemed so reluctant to leave on the previous night? How long did it take to watch that flock of geese traverse the sky from one end of this world to the other? – Certainly long enough to witness three volunteers from its hindquarters rise up to relieve those with the hardest job in the front. And what about that bird that’s been following me around all week to keep me from reading even the first of those 10 books? . . .

That bird is a real mystery to me. I’ve never heard a bird’s song with more notes – or even as many – as this one had in her repertoire. It was a melody – not the repetitive four- or five-tweet pattern which I hear from the birds at home. No, this bird had melody, cadence, and even rhyme, I'd say. But I never saw her . . .

I had positioned my chair at my favorite reading spot between a large tree and the gravesite of my first favorite writer from my teenage and early bread baking years, Thomas Merton. Last year I re-read most of his early classic, “The Seven Storey Mountain,” while sitting at this spot. This year I tried to start the introduction to a book by Robert Hopcke, “There are No Accidents.” The bird began singing as soon as I sat down. I stopped my reading attempts, looked up, tried to read again, sat up and craned my neck, stopped, gazed out to the mountains, thought a while, got up from the chair, craned my neck while standing this time, sat back down, got up to circle the tree while looking upward – no bird. I even said, Who are you that sings? – thinking I might scare her out of her hiding place so I could see her – desperate measures – then I rapped on the trunk of the tree – that was ridiculous and painful too – thinking the same thing, that she might expose herself to me.

I wasn’t annoyed in the least bit – more dumbfounded – even considering whether the monks might “plant” these bird song devices in the trees and turn them on from a switch inside a nearby window. Maybe two or three monks are looking out the window at me now, I thought, snickering at the way I rapped on the tree trunk as though to say who’s there? That would be ridiculous. But I wanted to make sense of the talented bird, or at least see her, and people can be pushed to think odd ways in times of great no-sense. Nevertheless –

She (and I) must have gone on like that for 30 minutes. Then, thinking I was cold anyway, thinking I couldn’t read here anyway, I got up to walk back to my room – and the bird stopped cold. Why stop now? I’m sure I said that. I ventured back to the chair, thinking the device might somehow be linked to the chair – hoping no one saw me – walking to and fro the chair, even sitting once and circling the tree once. But she never resumed.

Then last night I heard it again – in another tree – by the parking lot – I looked up as others walked by for their after-dinner stroll, or got in their cars to leave, or just ambled aimlessly.  I wanted to scream through their silence, The bird! She’s doing it again! But – I can’t see her . . .

I looked, craned, whispered . . . but she just sang.