My seat of river rock feels… wrong. I am used to the solid
and level chair of a severed limb beneath me, my back resting on the bough
behind. Today, the rocks shift below, sending me sliding. When I finally stabilize
myself on the rocks of the garden next to my tree, I find that a cold,
softball-size one has wedged itself between the back pockets of my jeans. My spine
strains against the forced rigidity of holding myself upright and unsupported.
“A new perspective,” I say to myself, and try to focus on
the aspects of the tree now at eye-level: peeling strips of bark like ingrown
fingernails, roots reaching into the rock garden and diving below into the
earth, the robotic movements of an ant as it step-step-step-step-steps its way
up the trunk.
Caw! Caw! A call sounds from directly above. The call sounds
again. This time I notice the subtle growl within the caw, making it almost
mechanical. I am reminded of a mechanized bird sounding the alarm in a dystopian
universe. The source of the noise is a sleek black bird sitting in the branches
of my tree. Sitting in my tree. My
heart somersaults within my chest.
Can I get up inside the
tree without disturbing him? I wonder. My numb posterior and I say a silent
thank you for the bird and we rise. Knocking over a dozen river rocks and
almost taking a tumble myself, I hoist my stiff body into its usual spot. Besides
the addition of several white-gray splotches of excrement on the full bough in
front of me, it feels like home.
I crane my neck, leaning against my back rest (for which my spine
is also thankful), and examine the mocking-jay-like bird for just a moment
before he takes flight. I’m shocked that I can see each feather in his wingspan
and hear the fwuht fwuht of feathers in the wind. My eye follows this bird to
discover that my entire yard has become an aviary: gray-tailed birds with dark
wings; auburn-breasted, white-torsoed ones with charcoal tails; black smooth-feathered
birds with heads so dark they shimmer blue in the light; a red cardinal, showy and bold, muting the colors of everything around him.
This new side of my yard buzzing with life catches me off-guard.
I thought I would welcome the green grasses and warmer air, but the truth is, I
don’t know how to handle it. After a winter of isolated and quiet reflection,
spring feels imposing and invasive. My tree is host to a bird reunion and their
chatter – probably shocked over the reduction of three boughs – scrambles my
brain and keeps it from forming one beautiful, lyrical, or even cohesive
thought.
This is the “after” part of life after death, I realize.
After someone dies, we wonder how can anyone possibly go on now. How can the
world keep turning and bills keep coming and games be played and hikes be made
and laughs be had? Those are the questions that we all have after. What I
learned from the birds is that it just does. Life goes on around you and it’s
dizzying. But there is no other choice. The snow thaws; the birds return. And a
marred tree or not, they keep going.
The birds always signal the arrival of spring before any other growing thing. Their colors and behaviors are the first sign of hope. My goldfinches are turning gold, all of a sudden. The blackbirds, the crows, however...they offer their comments regardless of weather or season. They adapt much better than the rest of us.
ReplyDeleteYour entry was deeply sad, deeply quiet. Rightfully so. I hope that the warm air and the sun will come and bring change for you.
Yes, they keep going. It's hard to imagine. The idea that your marred tree is a host to a chattery reunion is a striking image. And captures the sentiment of your reflections perfectly. Thanks for continuing to share your journey with us.
ReplyDeleteI love that you began this entry from a new perspective, and then climbed right back up into your tree. It sounds like you need a hug, and that your tree gives the best kind of hug.
ReplyDeleteI wrote about bird calls this week, too. Spring must be approaching.
ReplyDeleteI especially loved this line:
One bird sounds like a swing set that needs oil: skree-ee, skree-ee. Another explodes in a burst of hysterical laughter: ha ha ha ha ha. One more resembles something like a breathy, lisping dove: twoot, twoot.
I can hear exactly what you hear in the piece. Brings the landscape to life. I also appreciated how you connected this teeming landscape to loss. It feels like an intrusion, but in many ways, a necessary one?
"A new perspective" is possibly the best and worst euphemism in the world. It is a good view to have, but almost always comes from something being worse than it was before.
ReplyDeleteI also loved how you brought up the birds. I brought them up a few weeks ago, when we had a brief bit of warmth. Forget the ground hog, the birds are the ones that predict how close spring is.
I love that you have a different reaction to the birds than most people: "I thought I would welcome the green grasses and warmer air, but the truth is, I don’t know how to handle it. After a winter of isolated and quiet reflection, spring feels imposing and invasive." I was a little annoyed there were so many people at my blog place the last time I was there. I guess I was getting used to experiencing my place in solitude.
ReplyDeleteI really love your description of the bark "like ingrown fingernails." Perfect.
We expect to welcome a change of season, especially after a long and difficult winter. But the emergence here reveals that the emotional emergence from that dark winter is slower to come. I again appreciate all the vivid details - the cacophony is audible.
ReplyDelete