But for the birds
There were 100 of them set loose in New York’s Central Park sometime in the 1890s. Black birds all glossed in iridescence—purple, green, gold. It was humans who did it: brought them over from their European homeland. Humans who were enamored with the idea of having all the birds Shakespeare ever mentioned, on American soil.
Today, the European Starling is considered unsavory and invasive having learned to thrive here and often outcompeting other songbird species—those who are native to this continent.
We found them under the hood of our truck. They nest in cavities and the corner of the engine fit the bill. Four hatchlings tucked up against the dash, so that when Zach headed out to market, he heard them. And turned around and came home.
When he opened the hood, my heart softened and I said, “Shit. Oh crap.” I might have even dropped an F-bomb. I knew we were in for it and we had to act quickly because Zach would be late for market and the parents would be wondering where their babies were.
I contacted the bird rescue gals I have on speed dial and we set to work on a new nest to place nearby. But the parents never returned and it is illegal for a bird rescue to release invasive species. So, it came down to us. We’ve added four more animals to our list of 57 (not to mention the bees) in the hopes of setting them free when they are ready and equipped.
As if we know what it’s like to be a starling.
But we’ll try. Because for us, there is no other choice.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot. This choice thing. Because every 20 minutes, one of us has to feed those four baby birds, who yell in our ears, who already look more like birds and less like dinosaurs, who I have loved from the moment I first saw their bright yellow mouths asking to be fed.
Others who have seen them have shuddered a little. They don’t see cute. They see weird. They see naked and vulnerable. They say I am a better person than they are. But I am not.
For me, love is my nature and there is no choice in it. That’s why I am broken wide open during these times of covid-19 and racial divide at another boiling point. I live a life that is buffered by land and hard work and rural rhythm where most moments you wouldn’t know that all of this heartbreak, fear, hatred, and fury is brewing around us.
Meanwhile, just a couple hours north, white men scream in the faces of women of color peacefully asking to be seen and heard, and honored. Peacefully asking for change to finally happen. Again, and again, and again.
I can’t help but feel the weight of all it, even as I watch herons glide above me, bees lift on the breeze, flowers unfurl to the coming sun. And I know I am not alone.
Amidst the day-to-day push of work, parenting, protecting our health, body aches, plots to make our business pay the bills, the questions show themselves:
What can I do with what I have to make a difference?
How do I create positive change when 99% of my time is spent on our farm, where we embrace and celebrate diversity, on a tribal reservation where racism certainly exists but is not overt in our immediate sphere—or bubble as the case may be?
How do I root out the path to the subtle and insidious and lay it bare for its reckoning?
Will I make a difference?
Am I enough?
How many things don’t I know about my own privilege that cause harm?
Then the timer goes off and I grab the soggy cat kibble and head into my office to feed those baby birds.
Every 20 minutes I am called to presence.
All of this that is happening, it is the story of this age, in this place and we can’t change that we are here now, in it, together. This is not me saying that heritage, history, herstory, your story, my story—whatever led us to this place doesn’t matter. It matters.
But what does this moment ask of me?
Feed the birds. Speak softly to them. Marvel at what they know just by being what they are.
Then I am chewing on ironies:
Humans are the most invasive species on earth. It’s all our movement, all our actions, tinkering, invading, capturing, releasing, altering that brought the starlings here. That brought us all to this moment.
These tiny birds can really project. Sometimes they rattle and cheep so loudly that my ears ring. It’s disorienting. And powerful. I hear them. Then I hear them in my sleep.
Then I am examining the truths:
In nature, diversity = resiliency.
Humans are part of nature.
Nature does not discriminate.
But humans do.
Black and Indigenous Americans are disproportionately suffering from Covid-19. From racism.
These little birds are sprouting feathers. These little birds know the sound of my voice. These little birds don’t know that their circumstances are completely unique and unnatural. They just know they are here.
This is not new to me, this battle to keep myself from freezing up, to keep from diving into the depths of depression, to not smother beneath this red pall of empathy. And perhaps this is why I’ve created a life that requires me to keep moving, to keep tending, to keep holding space, to keep feeding, nurturing, caring.
But these birds. Something in their shrill keening. Something in the the precise movement of my hands, fingers pinching tweezers, dropping food into their mouths.
We are killing our home. We are killing ourselves. We cannot stop it, divided.
They don’t know that we humans have a complex relationship with their species. That our relationship with each other is baffling.
But they know my love.
There is more I can do, and I will never stop trying.
But each time I crouch toward the tiny mouths. Each time I lean into the deafening calls to be fed. Each time I lift them, their little feet gripping my fingers. Steady. Steady.
Each time I clean up their shit, wipe baby bird formula from the tufts on their heads—it’s an act of love. Love is not all there is to do, but it’s the fundamental thing.
And when these birds finally spread their wings and enter the world as they are meant to enter the world, I can only hope that my love is amplified by their mighty wingbeats.
I can only hope that you feel my love, wherever you are.
And know, I am holding you. I am trying.
