Watching Birds
May 19, 1999
For a few hours, I watched a magpie last February in the pine tree out my bedroom window. How, you may wonder, do I have that kind of time? I’m almost embarrassed to admit to myself that I do—bird watching, day-dreaming, not working, time. I like it—I like watching birds for one thing, not that I know anything about them.
This February magpie was huge—confident, fat, sassy. His autonomy astounded me. Hopping from branch to branch he systematically checked the bark for hibernating bugs. I envied his self-absorption which seemed innocent. But then, watching, I remembered bird squabbles I’d seen and I think he must have been pretty mean if another magpie had gotten in his way; mutuality in this corner of the bird kingdom being less an act of generosity than collective opportunism.
My daughter just read that, and reminded me of, the undying love and life long mating habits of Canadian geese. But I’m already a Canadian goose with a mate and goslings. I admire the magpie. You don’t get to be a six-pound magpie in mid-winter by being a sentimentalist.
However, true to my arrogant human nature, my first impulse was to adopt. To absorb my visitor into our world and enroll him in the great conversation of life, start an inter-species family. Rush out, buy him a feeder, tame him with my overwhelming ability to be responsible—I have a need to replace Mother Nature’s plans with a more organized approach anyway. Gardens, hedges, concrete borders.
My dog and I had an inter-species encounter when he ate dinner from the table two nights in a row because someone left their chair pulled out from the table. I didn’t admire his version of the wild kingdom—even though he was just doing the equivalent of the magpie’s search. We the people get the chicken fajitas and the steak; Eugene gets dachshund food, little pressed kernels of…something.
How does God program creatures to get along outdoors all winter? If my car broke down on the highway in February, I would sit there and die without a cell phone. This little bird was so fat he could hardly stand on his two skinny little legs.
What incredible peace there was watching him. He occupied a place where nature worked as it should and worked well. It was exciting to be so close to such a miracle. Just on the other side of my window was a life being lived, just like my neighbors whose lives go on behind their windows—but I have no idea of what their lives are like. We are all strangers somehow to each other, each of us in our own homes. In these little worlds of privacy, how little we know if each other.
“Compartmentalizing” seems to be a new buzz word I’ve seen lately. It means we are able to isolate different parts of our lives and forget the things we do at work while we’re at home, maybe even be different people when we’re behind the steering wheel or with a store clerk. One person when we’re alone, another in public. Magpies don’t compartmentalize, neither did Eugene. Without meaning to, we compartmentalize our lives—we think we can only give so much and that by saving parts of our “selves” for special times, we can be on hold at other times—at times and with people that we’ve decided don’t count.
Watching my magpie was like watching the most private of lives—a moment with another being who was able to give me an incredible experience in intimacy. He shared with me the glory of being alone when you feel so close to yourself and God and nature and yet because he was so able, so whole, we shared this moment alone together.
Thanks, big bird.
For a few hours, I watched a magpie last February in the pine tree out my bedroom window. How, you may wonder, do I have that kind of time? I’m almost embarrassed to admit to myself that I do—bird watching, day-dreaming, not working, time. I like it—I like watching birds for one thing, not that I know anything about them.
This February magpie was huge—confident, fat, sassy. His autonomy astounded me. Hopping from branch to branch he systematically checked the bark for hibernating bugs. I envied his self-absorption which seemed innocent. But then, watching, I remembered bird squabbles I’d seen and I think he must have been pretty mean if another magpie had gotten in his way; mutuality in this corner of the bird kingdom being less an act of generosity than collective opportunism.
My daughter just read that, and reminded me of, the undying love and life long mating habits of Canadian geese. But I’m already a Canadian goose with a mate and goslings. I admire the magpie. You don’t get to be a six-pound magpie in mid-winter by being a sentimentalist.
However, true to my arrogant human nature, my first impulse was to adopt. To absorb my visitor into our world and enroll him in the great conversation of life, start an inter-species family. Rush out, buy him a feeder, tame him with my overwhelming ability to be responsible—I have a need to replace Mother Nature’s plans with a more organized approach anyway. Gardens, hedges, concrete borders.
My dog and I had an inter-species encounter when he ate dinner from the table two nights in a row because someone left their chair pulled out from the table. I didn’t admire his version of the wild kingdom—even though he was just doing the equivalent of the magpie’s search. We the people get the chicken fajitas and the steak; Eugene gets dachshund food, little pressed kernels of…something.
How does God program creatures to get along outdoors all winter? If my car broke down on the highway in February, I would sit there and die without a cell phone. This little bird was so fat he could hardly stand on his two skinny little legs.
What incredible peace there was watching him. He occupied a place where nature worked as it should and worked well. It was exciting to be so close to such a miracle. Just on the other side of my window was a life being lived, just like my neighbors whose lives go on behind their windows—but I have no idea of what their lives are like. We are all strangers somehow to each other, each of us in our own homes. In these little worlds of privacy, how little we know if each other.
“Compartmentalizing” seems to be a new buzz word I’ve seen lately. It means we are able to isolate different parts of our lives and forget the things we do at work while we’re at home, maybe even be different people when we’re behind the steering wheel or with a store clerk. One person when we’re alone, another in public. Magpies don’t compartmentalize, neither did Eugene. Without meaning to, we compartmentalize our lives—we think we can only give so much and that by saving parts of our “selves” for special times, we can be on hold at other times—at times and with people that we’ve decided don’t count.
Watching my magpie was like watching the most private of lives—a moment with another being who was able to give me an incredible experience in intimacy. He shared with me the glory of being alone when you feel so close to yourself and God and nature and yet because he was so able, so whole, we shared this moment alone together.
Thanks, big bird.
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