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. 

What's happening in the garden in May?

We are anticipating a bumper crop this year. The garden is growing and looking healthy. We do have a slug problem, I just need to go on some midnight slug hunting trips. Come by for a meal or some tomatoes.

Cherokee purple, Tye Dye, and a zucchini plant are all setting fruit in barrel number one.

This is the Eight-Ball zucchini. I pulled out the roma tomato that was in this barrel, and now it is taking over. We'll probably be harvesting the first zucchini in 2 weeks or so. I should really learn how to cook the squash blossoms, because aren't those everyone's favorite part of the squash season?

A Very Long Birth Story

One year ago today my labor started. It was a Monday evening. I was in the bathtub reading a book, my belly high out of the water, feeling you kick and squirm. Any moment now. The tabby cat sat on the edge of the tub. My belly was tightening and relaxing, tightening and relaxing. I read my book, a magical story about a snow child in the Alaskan winter. You kicked. Your daddy entered the bathroom, kissed me, touched my hair, dripped water on my belly. "I think it's starting," I said.

I knew the moment you were conceived. I felt it. A tiny lightening strike deep inside. There was nothing else it could be. We didn't mean to make a baby, but our love was big and powerful from the very beginning. It was cosmic and unstoppable. We talked about you. We said, "If we do bring a baby back from Thailand, would that be so bad?" The moon was new; we were learning to scuba dive, spending the days underwater or in a boat, napping in the afternoon, then in the evening walking to an open air restaurant called Fishy's, drinking Thai beer and smoking, eating curry or noodles, then falling into bed and falling in love all over again. It's no wonder we made you. We couldn't help it.

What's happening in the garden?

It's March, I know. A little early for tomatoes, even in California. But it's spring now! And the weather is so fair. Today I did some work in the garden.

Considering the good news for Monsanto this week, I'm thinking that the more food we can eat from our back yard, the better. I'd like to get four more wine barrels so that I can plant beans and peppers.

Here we have the first tomato vines. Cherokee purple, Tye Dye, and San Marzano. These three are planted with some aspirin tabs, a crushed egg shell, a handful of tomato fertilizer, and some root fungi stuff.

Next is Brandywine Yellow, San Francisco Fog, and Early Girl. I planted the San Francisco Fog on top of a fish head left over from dinner. It must be a carniverous plant because it's already growing like crazy.

The pepper on the left is a Cute Stuff Red, and on the right is a Fresno Chile. The flowers are ranunculus and anemone.

Intentions

Part of simplicity and mindfulness is living with intention. I've believed for a long time that it's not what we think that matters, but what we do. I want the things I do to reflect my beliefs and values. I want to do fewer things that are incongruous, impulsive, or unkind.

I want to stop purchasing drug-store beauty products that are tested on animals and full of chemicals that probably cause cancer or disrupt the environment.
I want to drink California wines while in California, and Italian wines while in Italy. Same for olive oil.
I want to buy gifts this holiday season from local craftspeople and businesses. I want to support local business in general.
I want to spend more time reading, writing, taking photos, making things, dancing, conversing, and engaging, not mindlessly consuming media.
Eat more vegetarian meals.
Listen to music. 
I'm interested in bringing healthcare back into the home and the very local (microlocal? is that a thing yet? it should be.) community through herbalism, nutrition, midwifery, breastfeeding support, etc.

Some changes I'm making recently:
Switching from mainstream cleaning products to vinegar, baking soda, castile soap, and essential oils.
Menu-planing more, cooking creatively, and wasting less.
Eating what's in the garden.
Eating what's nutritious. Food is medicine.