5th Moanin' of Christmas

April 13, 2020

Greetings from the nest,

Katherine told us that the nuthatch will take bits of leaves, or insects, and scurry around the opening to the nest in the tree, sweeping the surface of the bark.  The purpose, it turns out, is to throw predators off the scent of her nest.  It was one of those little things I would never have bothered to understand, and it was a beautiful gift to know.

We sat in the sun, my wife and I, about six feet and a generation away from our granddaughter Ila Rose.  She was tucked inside a blanket, making little songs, or perhaps poems, the rhymes to which none of us could guess.  

It was a month since we last held her, just after she was born, which was both moments and eons ago.  Since then we have had her image but not the warmth and weight of her.  There is an ache in holding a baby for a long time, and there is an ache in not holding her for a long time.

The bird scurried up and down the tree, making light scratching noises on the bark.  I looked up at the sound, watched her for a moment, dancing along the tree’s shape, admired the nimble energy, the sureness of movement.  I thought how lucky she is to be able to fly.

A few weeks ago, we drove the hour or so to their home to bring food and a few things that new parents would want and saw Ila through the glass.  It was a peculiar experience, one I was not prepared for, as if anything would prepare us.  I was grateful to have seen Katherine and Tim holding Ila but drove home feeling like I’d been to a strange exhibit of my family.

The nuthatch will stand in the opening of the nest and spread her wings.  She will do a little ballet there, appearing as fierce and imposing as a tiny bird can, sending a brave image to squirrels or other raiders that she is not to be trifled with.  It is a graceful and powerful movement, a tiny, colorful flutter of poetic drama.

We sat on the deck, an almost ordinary Saturday afternoon, and the conversation pushed past the strangeness of waiting in line for an hour to enter the grocery store, and the comically elusive toilet paper.  Until we were talking about normal things, and baby things, and simple treasures.  Ila squirmed and settled and then napped, a skill I admired, and recognized as one inherited from me.

I looked up and saw the nuthatch was watching us.  She seemed still, framed in the nearly perfect circle of her home.  I don’t know what she made of our arrangement, our shifting and swaying, the little noises we made back and forth.  The way we held and protected our Ila Bird.

Stories have floated into my day, of people separated from those they love, sometimes in tragic moments, in heartbreaking experiences.  I know these stories sear and scar the lives around us.  By contrast our tableau, a sunny afternoon, separated by mere feet and not lifetimes, is one to be grateful for.

This slip of time, one of worry, of shortages, of sickness and uncertainty, of death, is a pale echo of times the world has suffered through.  But it is real enough, challenging enough, in some small ways, in some more lasting ways.  One truth I keep with me since I was old enough to understand, words that might keep us humble in good times and hopeful in trying times; All Things Pass.

A year from now Ila will be walking, already exploring the world in her way.  Every new thing a brilliant discovery, each bump a surprise, each new color a delight.  This time of separation, of limitations, will be nothing to her, other than perhaps stories someone will tell one day.

We are told not to worry, that if God is watching over even the tiniest bird in the forest, the simplest flower, you know His eye is on us as well.  I’ll admit I’ve struggled with this message, wondering, but that’s our place in life, to wonder.  

The nuthatch by nature is in almost constant motion.  Foraging, feeding, protecting, fleeing, seeking love, adapting.  She moves almost constantly; it is her way of surviving and to be sure those she loves has the chance to thrive.

And yet she stood still in the dark round space, the door of her nest, and watched us.  The symmetry of the moment startled me.  And this morning this other thread appeared, this feeling that the same Creator who watches over the tiniest bird, may send her to watch over our Ila Bird.  She who dances and sweeps, she who is grace and power and courage, hovers in care over the one who needs her.

 In each life there are signs and messages, some we are open to, some are given and explained, others are left for us to unwrap when we are ready.  

I know as I sit watching this day lighten that not far from here the nuthatch spreads her wings wide, holds them apart as if to embrace the day, and then slowly pirouettes, brave guardian over our sleeping treasure.  In opening her wings, in sharing that color and shape, she makes herself more than she is, to give care for the one who still makes rhymes in her dreams.

“Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, ..”  Dickenson

Hope this finds you lifted on wings,

David

Copyright © 2020 David Smith