Wonder How Another Creature Lives

My first baby was born in April of 2008 and the beautiful spring weather that comes during that time of year in Virginia meant the two of us got to spend a lot of time outdoors. The fresh air was a gift, but those early weeks were still hard. Though I was in constant awe of this perfect human being, that awe was eclipsed by the overwhelm of this enormous new responsibility: caring 24 hours a day for someone so completely dependent on me.

There was a hammock underneath trees in the backyard where we'd rock while I tried desperately to get the hang of breastfeeding. One day, while we swayed in the shade, both fussy and in tears, I noticed that a bird was hopping about on the fence near us, not far from a birdhouse we'd put up but never expected any actual bird to inhabit. I slowed the hammock and my son, perhaps sensing my own sudden attention, grew quiet. Sure enough, the bird, a tiny Carolina wren, flew into the house. I watched in wrapt attention as the bird, soon joined by a mate, flew back and forth bearing little insects in and carrying waste out, ceaseless in movement, feeding the babies I noticed I could now hear peeping inside.

I do not know how long we sat there that first day I met the wren family, but I remember that experience as a turning point in my journey as a parent. For days, until the babies fledged, I came back to the hammock with my son and watched the comings and goings. Seeing these little birds working so hard to raise their young revealed a kinship with mothers and fathers across all time. If they could do it, perhaps I could too. I relaxed in their presence, mesmerized by their movements, curious about their labors, and it's no surprise to me now that breastfeeding got easier around that time. My own calm state made it easier for my son to feed. And I found confidence in what my body could do as I marveled at what the little wrens' bodies could do.

One of my favorite flavors of awe is the kind that not only takes your breath away but also leaves you changed for having witnessed it. It's hard to find this kind of awe on purpose, it usually occurs at a serendipitous confluence of urgent need and accidental discovery. But I find it most often when I get curious about lives other than my own. Watch a bee and see what it can teach you about discernment. Watch an ant carry a crumb the size of its body and wonder about strength. What can you learn about stillness from your dog? About metamorphosis from a dandelion? About perseverance from a grandparent?

Just this week I discovered another Carolina wren nesting improbably in a bag hanging in our shed. She has a clutch of 4 speckled eggs and I am visiting once a day to see what happens when they hatch. I am no longer nursing my own babies, but I suspect as I watch her mother these chicks I am still going to be learning something new.