August 11, 2021

Who am I to say the birds don’t know the forecast, too?

Today a pair of finches are tending their nest in the oak tree. They feed their young as vigilantly as they’ve ever fed themselves, if not more so.

From a swaying nest four tiny heads pop out in tolls of hunger. The parents aren’t far away. The larger of them condescends the other from a high branch as the little one forages on the ground. Then he buzzes up to the nest with a bounty of bug vomit to share. The realest elixir of life.

I’m pretty sure they know how hot it’s going to get, but this is a different kind of knowing than I have. They aren’t suffering yet, and I doubt either parent lost any sleep.That’s not to say they don’t worry, but this is a different kind of worry than I have. We can all learn to dance with death, they tell me. With duty and gentleness and gratitude.

They tell me it’s high time to cultivate a practice of surrender, so fancy. Right now my practice looks kinda like a Shakespearean tragedy, or some other cathartic performance art. It’s okay. I don’t have to be as graceful as the birds are, even though I have considerably less at stake.

Just chill human, they say. I can let go of the idea that I should save the earth, in fact it’s important. She’s not asking for that. I can water my flowers if it makes me feel better, but I know all of their blossoms will fall later today.I’ll water my flowers either to give them a fighting chance or to add dramatic flair to their demise, both respectable choices.

The petals will go, and I get to collect them. An honor and a privilege. I wont interfere with the earth’s own collection of petals, and all of the fledglings that will drop from their nests into her arms this week. I get to witness the unfolding.