A baby bird fell out of a tree: on learning to fly

 We've become familiar with our feathered neighbors this spring: the hummingbirds who are always vying for ownership of the feeder, the little brown birds who fly around in a pair making high-pitched cheeping sounds, and the scrub jay family who are nesting in the tree on the west side of the yard, near the fence.

I was pottering in the garden yesterday afternoon when I noticed something tiny and fluffy flapping and cheeping on the ground in the fallen leaves near the fence. It was a baby scrub jay, fallen from the nest. One of the parents was hopping around near it, looking concerned. The little chick can't fly yet.

We didn't know what to do. They looked like a family in crisis, a nestling on the ground and the nest so high up. That little bird just a ball of dandelion fluff. I didn't believe it would last the night.

We did some research and contacted some wildlife rescue people. They said to leave the bird where it is, that it is a fledgling and often they spend a few days on the ground before they learn to fly. The parents will watch over it and feed it, and they will hear the baby call.

We kept an eye on it yesterday, concerned because we didn't see the parents around much. We kept the cats inside and hoped a raccoon wouldn't find it. I am so tender-hearted, even worse than usual these days, and that scared little chicky made me so sad. It looked so vulnerable, sitting on the ground in its tender baby fluff, about to spend its first night out of the nest.

I keep thinking of Pema Chodron's passage about the baby bird:

...Another image for maitri or loving-kindness is that of a mother bird who protects and cares for her young until they are strong enough to fly away. People sometimes ask, "Who am I in this image--the mother or the chicks?" The answer is we're both: both the loving mother and those ugly little chicks. It's easy to identify with the babies--blind, raw, and desperate for attention. We are a poignant mixture of something that isn't all that beautiful and yet is dearly loved. 

I feel like that baby bird a lot, since becoming a mother: vulnerable, uncertain, and completely ill-equipped for life outside the nest . Sometimes I lose the mother bird part of me, and all I feel inside are those hungry chicks, cheeping cheeping. Now I have to take care of my own inner baby bird, and my outer baby bird who always needs physical and emotional caretaking. (And my husband's baby bird, who I love as much as my own.)

But I can see what that baby scrub jay outside in my back yard can't: the parents are there, watching out, and so am I, a benevolent gardener. This is what's supposed to happen. This happens to all baby birds learning to fly: they spend some cold nights on the ground. It's lonely and painful, but a part of the process. This bird is lucky it fell on our side of the fence, and not the neighbors' side where the pit bull lives. Its feather will grow in and it will learn to fly. 

lessons in gratitude #2

I'm feeling tender and vulnerable the last few days. There are definitely more tender days now that I'm a mother than before; there's just something painful about watching your own inner child learn to toddle around.

We put him down for his nap this afternoon, thinking it was a good day to snuggle up in bed, read a book, and take a nap ourselves. Of course the baby didn't want to sleep. He fussed and yelled. Then there was a period of silence long enough to make us think that maybe he'd fallen to sleep. But then he'd fuss some more and we'd hear him standing in his crib and dropping things on the floor. We brought him to bed with us, hoping he'd vibe with us and we'd all fall asleep, but of course he just wanted to crawl all over us and pull my hair.

Anyway... eventually I got up, and fed him an avocado and some leftover pasta, but we were both annoyed with each other and not very friendly. He tried to make peace by offering me some rotini with his slimy little hand. He is so cute and sweet, and his heart is so pure that my heart melted and I felt like such a jerk for letting him fuss in his crib for so long. I let him put the pasta in my mouth, and I praised him for being such a generous little boy and thanked him for thinking of me. We played on the floor for awhile. I was so impressed with how he's understanding more words and he's getting so much better at moving through space and manipulating objects. When he smiles at me we share such a beautiful feeling of pleasure.

Then it was bedtime so we took a bath. He likes to drink water from a black mug with a panda face on it. We played with the rubber duckies. He likes it when I put one on my head, and when it falls off he stands up and puts it back on my head. He smiles and laughs and squirms with pleasure. His little belly was all sticking out, full of avocado and noodles, and his little hands dart everywhere like fish.

We play a game when we get out of the tub. I toss him on the bed and rub him vigorously with a towel to dry him. He tries to get away, but I catch him and say, "Is the baby dry yet? Nooo!" And I toss him back on the bed and dry him some more. He thinks it's sooo funny. He laughs and laughs and kicks his feet in the air, flips over like a turtle and tries to crawl away again. We do this 3 or 4 times before I take him to his room to dress him for bed. He was trying to squirm off the changing table as I was strapping his diaper on, so I sang "You are My Sunshine" and he quieted a little. I kept singing and making up verses as I put his pajamas on.

It is night, dear, and time for sleeping
You are tired, so am I
But when you wake, dear,
we'll have breakfast.
I will love you all of your life.

Things felt right with us when I put him down, and he went right to sleep. I still feel like a jerk, though. 

the art of nursing

I love this photo. It shows the essence of nursing so well. This nurse is doing the best thing, just by being there with an open heart. The best nurses are fearless; they confront illness or birth with each patient, over and over again. They are not closed off or defensive; to truly advocate for the patient they need to listen and understand with compassion. No veil. They are bodhisattvas.

I know I am a more compassionate nurse now. One thing this terrible/wonderful year has given me is greater compassion. Feeling blessed.