The Inconsequential Consequences of Feeding Baby Birds

I've started to tune them out. Noisy little buggers, these baby birds. But oh so cute!

We've raised a few individual and a few clutches over the years. Hungry and demanding and often times too weak to carry on.

The first time we cared for a baby, it was before we even had babies of our own. Peter and I were living in Manhattan at the time. On a fishing excursion, he looked down and found a baby on the ground. He/she had no feathers for identification. And no mom to be found.

Sure. He should have just left him/her, but he didn't. He brought him/her home to me.

We hand-fed Lemonhead, which is the name we eventually would call "her". Seemed fitting as the spikey tubes would later unfurl into yellow and brown feathers easily identifying her as a Baltimore Oriole. But at first, her huge eyes, bald head, and skin-wrapped-cartiledge for wings made her too adorable to resist. And like the birds we have today, "she" needed constant feeding which we gave her. I believe, Peter even brought her to work to feed her during the day. I honestly don't remember, but I picture that happening.

Soon, Lemonhead was ready to fly. She would demonstrate by fluttering about in her box. That's when we transferred her to a cage and taught her not only to forage for food on her own, but perch on a makeshift branch. Regularly, we would open the cage and out she would fly. At first, quite wabbly, we were sure to catch her. Back then, she had plenty of room to fly, glide, soar and just as much room to come crashing into, down onto, or through for a landing.

One day, I let her out and she attacked me. She came straight for me, landed on my dress and proceeded to peck at me. I was frightened and a bit hurt. The scratches would heal but why would she not like me all of a sudden?

When Peter got home, I told him. We opened the cage and I showed him. She did it again and again.

Peter laughed. By now, we were pretty sure she was a Baltimore Oriole. As Peter explained it, she was doing what she does best. She was hunting for insects and sipping from flowers. I was confused until he pointed at my dress. Sure enough, it had huge brightly colored flowers and the baby bird was trying to feed herself.

Time to let her go, I guess. During the weekend, Fourth of July weekend as it so happened, we went back to where Peter had found her and set her free. She flew beautifully. A short time later, we went to the area again. Peter went there to fish, but I went to see if I could catch a glimpse of Lemonhead. No. Another time, Peter did go and saw an oriole. We'd like to think it was her and she was happy and healthy and at home along the river bank. We will never really know. But we'd like to think we helped in some small way.

The irony of that situation was that, while Peter was perfectly happy to care for a baby bird, turtle, snake, rabbit...whatever, but he didn't want children of his own. We were in marriage counseling when this came out. I was horrified. And even more so when a few months later, I would go to the doctor and find out I was pregnant.

Well, the day we released Lemonhead was the day I was far enough along to start telling family and friends. Symbolic and joyous. We looked forward to the future and a human baby to care for.

And wouldn't you know it? Our daughter, the one I was pregnant with at the time we raised and released an Oriole, wants to be a wildlife rehabilitator. Over the years, she's earned a reputation for herself. When there's a sick or hurt wild animal, her friends and our neighbors know just who to call.

So, while she's up at SUNY ESF's Cranberry Lake, taking summer field study courses for her major, she got a text. She texted me. "Do you want to take care of baby birds?" How do I say no? And here we are, with baby birds.

As per usual, one is large and healthy, the middle one is doing well, and then there is the runt of the clutch. This one has some feathers, but not many. "He" cannot seem to support himself on his legs. He doesn't stand because his legs are splayed out. One leg and wing even seemed broken. But he's hungry and so along with his brothers or sisters, we feed him. He lifts his head, eyes open and aware. He scrambles around the box, mostly to get away from the bigger siblings who peck at him and sit on him. Do the bigger birds truly try to kill the others so there is more food for them? I think this is pretty obvious.

We've had them for several days. I was thankful that we could help in our small way, particularly after finding the clutch of eggs that fell and broke behind the house. These guys seemed to be a way for us to make good.

Today, as I fed them, I noticed the little one kept falling asleep. This was not a good sign. As the other two clamored to get fed, the little one would lift his head but then put it back down. As his eyes closed for the last time, I watched as life left him. That's all I could do at this point. Just watch him die.

I know, I know. This is a baby bird who probably wouldn't have survived this long. I know. It's a baby bird with many to take his place in the world. I know, in the nest, the others would have probably killed him. I know. I had only known him for a few days. I know all of that. But I cried anyway. Not like I did when Chelsea my 9-year-old shadow-of-a-dog was hit by a car and killed. No. But I shed tears nonetheless.

Tiny, fragile, and maybe to some, inconsequential, a life is a life. I hope he knew we were rooting for him. We were hoping he'd defy the odds and survive. That we wanted to see him grow feathers, grow strong and fly. I hope his existence would have mattered in the world. I hope he knew he mattered to me.

I hope for every life, there is someone in this world who will acknowledge that existence and mourn for its loss. I hope. And today, like every other day, I hope for another chance to do what I can to make someone's life a little better. I live in hope. . .

Expectations, Eggshells, and an Eerie Email Encounter

We had a great trip to Charleston, SC. We finally made it to the Sweetgrass Basket Festival. From when I first opened my store, people would tell me I had to see the baskets made in this country. Not understanding the difference, I actually applied to vend many years ago and was told the festival was really about the Sweetgrass baskets. I understood.

This year, with no storefront, but still wanting to buy ostrich eggshell to support the San I had worked with, I applied for a booth not to sell baskets, but the ostrich eggshell beaded jewelry.

This is the year of the San Bushmen. This is the year I concentrate on marketing them. (OK, with some marula on the side).

Are they ready? Can I do this without impacting their lives negatively? Will I be able to meet the needs of the retailers and the San women? I sure hope so. After over 10 years of trying to make this happen, is it finally going to happen?

I was sitting at my computer thinking about the trip. No, we didn't sell that magic number that I told myself we had to sell in order to make the trip worthwhile. And so, I wanted to approach some retail stores. At least then, I knew I did what I could to recoup some costs and to help the sustainability of the project.

Getting ready to send out some emails, I got one instead.

I sat there reading it and smiling, then crying. If there was ever a doubt that there is someone watching over me, let me remember this moment.

This is what the email said:

" I just needed to tell you that I was truly impressed with your display of ostrich eggshell necklaces and other items this past Saturday (June 6) at the Sweetgrass Basket Festival in Mt. Pleasant, SC. I did not get a chance to converse with the young man at the display as he was busy with customers as I was passing through so I picked up your business card before leaving. I have read your information online and it is so touching. I do have a SC retail license and am so interested in retailing the necklaces. I have just located to the Columbia, SC area from Charleston, SC. Please let me know what information you need so that I will be able to receive your wholesale information. Thank you and have wonderful day."

You can't make this stuff up! If that's not a sign, I don't know what is.

Legacy

My dad was a doctor. Typical Filipino, he wanted all his kids to be in the medical field. Nope. Not a one.

But now, my daughter is taking Wildlife Conservation Biology and loving the science of it all. At a 6 week Field Study program and she texts me what she is learning. She tells me things and I wonder, 'Is she speaking English?' She told me today, "I want to do this for the rest of my life!"

My dad would be so proud!

Choosing A Life of Abandon or Abandonment

The other day I woke up and realized for the first time that Peter loves me. Sure, over the course of our nearly 30 years together, I’ve seen it. When he made me a cake for my birthday, when he holds a branch instead of paying attention to his bird dog Vicky while hunting, when he tells me he loved what I had just written. But have I believed it? I don’t know.

The short but resounding “idea” “voice in my head” “feeling in my soul” I felt the other day was overwhelming really. “Peter loves you.” it said, showed, made me feel. It instilled a genuine belief that Peter would never leave me. It radiated the idea, the wonder of how much Peter actually loved me. Me for me. How I know he would be lonely without me? That he won’t have the same outlook on the world and wouldn’t have the same impetus to do things if I were not there to share in it with him.

When the kids were younger, toddlers, they gave us everything. No, not that, more like their boogers, empty juice boxes, showed us things as if it didn’t exist unless they shared it with us. “Look mommy, a dog.” “Look mommy, Aunt Carol’s here.” “Shit, mommy! Right? Shit?” Macallan asked me as she tried to confirm the correct useage of the curse word. They hadn’t known life without us, because without their knowing it, we gave them life, afterall.

Did they fear that they wouldn’t exist without us, like oxygen? Did they think because I never left their side, that when I was gone, life as they knew it would disappear, thus the crying? Did they think, this is my trusty, soft, little-blanket? Was I the disgustingly dirty, stained thing Macallan gripped tightly to her face, unable to fall asleep unless she had it? I think I was that for them. Am I that for him?

It would be stifling if I didn’t feel the same way - that I enjoy his compay; that I need to tell him about things that happened when we are not together; that I can’t sleep unless I am touching him.

He said, I better die within minutes of you because why would I want to go on without you? Or as I believe he really put it, “It would suck without you. “

There was a time early on in our marriage when I wondered why he went away so often. Hunting, fishing, and he couldn’t tell me when he would be back. ‘Do I wait for dinner for you on Sunday?’ He couldn’t tell me. I was still in the deepest of my abandonment phases. It would take us nearly 25 years together to realize, he went to do those things because he enjoyed them. He didn’t do them to get away from me. Big difference. (Straight out of “Out of Africa, that whole scene, something we wouldn’t realize was an issue with us until years of therapy. It was like a punch in the stomach when I saw it on the big screen with Robert Redford as Peter and Meryl Streep as me! This was not a concept only we suffered through. Oh what a relief! Not!)

When I was three, my mom and dad left for the States to start a life for all of us. Several weeks later, when the house was prepared, my grandfather was supposed to bring us to them. My brother, sister and I were only going to be apart from our mom and dad for a few weeks. But the weeks went by and still no plane ride to be with our parents. Months disappeared and we were still in the Philippines. Finally, my brother had gotten severely hurt, did our grandfather finally realize he couldn’t care for us and ensure our safety properly, or did my mom’s threat of returning to get us herself warrant our actually boarding that plane? It would be a year before we were reunited with our parents. A year where they missed out on key developmental progress and impacted profound emotional scarring.

Just about every day, I text my daughter good morning and good night. Ok, over the past two years that she’s been in college, we’ve missed a handful of days, but even after she took her first trip abroad without us, we have only gone a day or so without a word from each other. 1.) I want to make sure she’s still alive. 2.) I miss her company. I think I feel the way our kids did when they were younger. Is it worth noticing/experiencing without them to share it with?

Well, that’s what love is. Not just between a husband and wife, but with your kids or anyone, really. God, we went the weekend without our recently adopted elderly rescued dog, Clark, and several times I found myself saying, ‘Clark would have loved this hotel, this walk, this other dog.’ ‘See, we could have brought him! ‘

I wasted so much time questioning Peter’s love for me when I could have just been basking in it. Instead of the fights asking for reassurance, I could have enjoyed that stroll through Paris on our honeymoon, that last day together in Turkey when we were living apart, and the three years in Botswana.

Since yesterday, I must say I still get fleeting glimpses of his wandering eye, his flirtation with coworkers, his condescending tone, but they are what they are. I know he loves me. And that’s for real, and for me.

The insecurities that result in the other actions, that’s all about him. Those are his failings, his self-inflicted punishments, his need to reassure himself about himself. That has little to do with me.

What he gives me far outweighs those cracks in his armor. As my knight, a dream we shared during our honeymoon, Peter was hurt and I was there to help him.

Well, just as in every other aspect of my life, my helping helps and heals me, too. The sooner I realize that, the better.

How we live our life are choices we make. We get to decide whether we live a life of abandon or a life of abandonment.