nature

Yesterday morning running on Huron Avenue I saw a bird lying on its back in the road. Another bird stood near, hopping up and down like a cheerleader, seeming to encourage its friend, why don't you get going? But the fallen bird was having back problems.

Its beak opened and closed rhythmically to cry out, but no sound came. I wondered: do I feel less compassion when a creature makes no sound?

The bird couldn't stand so I took off my tank top and wrapped it up and carried it to the grass. Once down, it started to flap its wings furiously. I thought it might piss itself off into a standing position, but after one final push for life, it lay still and accepted its end.

I come across many animals. (Perhaps it's because I walk and take the bus, and insist on leading a reasonably paced life.) But this was the first time I didn't feel an overwhelming need to rescue it - to finding someone or something with a solution. To fix this bird, dammit, come hell or high water!

Instead I sat with it and thought of my friend Jeffrey who told me a story - filled with wisdom and compassion - about sitting with a dying animal, without trying to stop it or change it or fix it... I thought about how death naturally pressed in, regardless of how I feel about it.

Mary Oliver's poems nod to some meaning, some hint of God, some peace, in the natural world.

My mother read "Black Oaks" in church the other day. Here is the second half:

Today is a day like any other; twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.