Observe a Cycle

For several weeks I watched a pair of robins raise their young in the butterfly bush that runs along the driveway. Their nest was at eye level so I could peer in and watch the proceedings but it was also well-hidden behind the foliage - better than some of the others that dot the yard. The robins were devoted parents, both taking turns to sit on the eggs and then working tirelessly when the eggs hatched. From sun up to sun down, they would fly back and forth with beaks full of worms to feed the three chicks that grew from pink and helpless to fluffy and watchful in what seemed like the blink of an eye. 

One day all but one of the babies was gone. The last one could be found hidden and standing still on a branch deep in the bush. I told myself they had fledged. The parents were still busily flying about the yard. I told myself they were feeding the babies in different spots now - increasing the likelihood of their survival. If the fledging seemed to come too fast - I chalked that up to how it feels for all parents when our babies leave the nest.

For the past several weeks I have turned soil and prepared my garden for growth, pulling weeds, adding manure and compost to the beds, and planting seedlings we started under grow lights in the basement. My son, Leal, has helped with these labors in his own ways - starting the seeds, weed-whacking the space between the beds, and experimenting with new planting approaches he’s learned about online. My son Oli, who died 4 and a half years ago, helps in his own ways too - reminding me to feel the soil beneath my fingers, to pay attention to the pollinators, to transplant the volunteers instead of cull them because all living things deserve the chance to thrive. I no longer have a husband who can help in his own ways. I still planted tomatoes for his favorite summer sandwiches but now if they grow Leal will have to ferry them to him, in his new life, in his new home. Now it’s just me, Leal, and Oli’s spirit stewarding this land. 

The little ecosystem of my backyard has been a constant teacher since Oli died. It has never for a moment allowed me to dwell in the land of “why me?” Because life, death, loss, growth, and change are constants here. And no matter how well-intentioned the start of anything on this half acre, I am taught again and again that the future is not promised. More accurately: the future I might wish for is not promised. But that does not diminish the importance of whatever happens. Whatever happens, plays a role in keeping things happening. We are all steps in the unfolding. 

This is what I thought when I found the crumpled body of a fledgling robin in one of the beds. It was belly down, head resting on its side, wings splayed out. I hoped it was not a robin, but turning it over - the delicate rusty feathers on its breast were confirmation. I did not cry - though I think it must have been one of the babies I’d watched so closely for weeks. I questioned the quiet in my response. Had I lost the capacity for compassion? For so long the death of any young thing renewed my own pain in losing my child.

What I found in my questioning was instead a deep connection to the earth. I had watched the best parent birds do the best they possibly could for their offspring - and still - at the moment 

their jobs were nearly complete something else in nature sought sustenance in their labor of love. 

This is how life works. 

And I do not know why the hunter did not finish his meal. But I know this baby bird did not pass from life without purpose. I dug a hole in the flower bed and carefully returned this little body to the earth. 

To the worms. 

Who will help it to feed the plants. 

Whose own bodies will feed other birds. 

We are, none of us, immune to this cycle. To all the cycles. It has taken many years and may yet take whatever time I have left to learn how to let go of the wish to control these cycles. 

But I know in my bones that each day we get to watch something live is a gift. And I know when we pass from breathing to not, from here to not, it does not mean we are over. We live on in all we have touched, in all our bodies allow to grow. 

Sweet robins, your lesson was a hard one. But I thank you for letting me be part of your will to live.