Day 23

It is in all of us to defy expectations, to go into the world and to be brave. To want, to need, to hunger for adventures. To embrace change and chance and risk so that we may breathe and know what it is to be free.

Mae Chevrette

The universe offers up adventure in surprising moments. But then, perhaps I should have expected it. What better day to be challenged than on Earth Day on a full moon?

Last night I decided to go into town, buy take-away and watch the full moon rise from a new vantage point. I hesitated quite a bit. Town on Friday night was the perfect time to be “seen”. Seen. Why am I so frightened of it? I have ceased to bother turning off my phone as work has made no attempt to contact me. I have been touched and grateful for their respect of my privacy. Also a little unsettled. It would be easier to interpret their actions as merely indifference, and perhaps it is. That would be easier to accept. Respect for my privacy makes them seem too real and human and I prefer the grey robots of my imagination. It is much more comfortable that way.

In the end, after some deliberation, I decided it was time. I have, after all, remained largely hidden for three weeks, and even on retreat it can be good to gain new perspective. So, in my mind I practised to myself the words I would say if I met anyone. If someone asked me “I thought you weren’t well?” I would simply look at them and calmly say, “No, I’m not.” No explanation. No prolonging of the conversation. Simply, “No, I am not.” Easy. Yeah, right. Just about as easy as cuddling up with a large spider. But I felt that I had reached the point where I could no longer continue to hide in fear but must be prepared to stand by my decision. I also knew that the time for continually trying to explain and justify and apologise was over. Somehow I had to learn to have nerves of ice.

As it happens, I met no one that I knew and I was not put to the test. Instead I found myself settled at a picnic bench in the park, watching the night sky. Nearby an exercise class continued, with Lycra-clad ladies contorting and lowering themselves in response to barked commands and high-energy music. But the music was not loud and they were sufficiently far away that I could simply enjoy the fact that I was not one of them. They became part of the evening’s entertainment. Tonight I would not be sheep. Instead, I would enjoy the great feast before me: a table and bench provided free for my benefit, with beautifully green, mown grass at my feet and a light show before me. The evening was that perfect thing: still and balmy, neither hot nor cold. It was exactly the kind of weather you would order for every day of the year if you could, if only that would not render the experience too common and deprive you of the enjoyment of your senses. I was rich and blessed.

The moon remained hidden behind a thick belt of cloud but I knew she was there. On such a night I could not care even that the full moon was denied to me, even though I had made an expedition simply to see it. I was drunk on beauty. Light, sound and activity all around me, but softened and made bearable by the darkness of the night and by my anonymous privacy within it. The entire world was a performance put on just for me and I was Queen, moving through it all at my will.

Eventually I got up to go home, walking slowly, drinking in the intoxication of my own freedom. Then, as I approached the bridge, a brilliant streak of white emerged at the upper edge of the cloud above a line of apartment buildings. The moon was fighting her way to freedom! Then a boy, probably only a few years younger than me, skated past, wearing only shorts, with his shirt tied around his waist, flapping against his thighs. He was singing to himself and it was strange, because he seemed to be singing words and yet no words of any language I could identify emerged. But he seemed so happy. He wove back and forth on his board with an easy grace that spoke, not only of long experience but also great love. His movements made love to the night and to the deliciousness of his own swift movement through it.

Did I make that up about him? Perhaps. But at the centre of the bridge he came to a halt, pulling out his phone with an easy, effortless gesture and he began filming the scene before him. Perhaps he was a tourist who had brought his board with him and the skyline I take almost for granted was new to him. Or perhaps he truly understood the beauty of the night. As I walked past him he was still singing the strange, melodious and yet tuneless non-words happily to himself as his phone swept slowly and smoothly across the horizon. Then his phone was back in his pocket and he was swaying past, again a god of motion, weaving his graceful way across the bridge. He seemed to accept the near empty, brightly-lit pavements as his natural due, even as I had accepted the gift of a picnic bench in the park. I watched until the night swallowed him. Then I turned my gaze to the ever-brightening steak of white above the buildings. He had paused and moved on too soon, his rhythm a little out of sync with the universe.

Slowly she emerged from hiding, freeing herself from her blanket of cloud. Bright and beautiful she rose, completing the night for me. How is it that I have developed such a passion for the moon? Am I merely suggestible, responding to what I have learned Pagans are “supposed” to love? Once, for me, it was merely a moon and the stars merely bright points in the sky. To be honest, I never even saw them much, being usually indoors when they came into power. I had no romantic notions about the moon nor even a scientific interest in astronomy (the gift of scientific enquiry and curiosity seems to have entirely passed me by). The moon was merely a great and dusty rock orbiting the planet, reflecting the light of the sun. But now? For all I may romantically name her goddess, I do not actually think of her as such. But her shifting moods and phases, and the passage of the stars across the sky, move me in a way I cannot describe. I do not need to ascribe “supernatural” powers to her; the very existence of so much magnificence is a miracle beyond my understanding.

I continued my walk home, my gaze now focusing inwards. Words were beginning to shimmer around me, words that described how I felt about dance. They were slippery, elusive, one moment there and the next lost. I found myself repeating them to myself in the hope of keeping hold of them and my pace quickened, with feet anxious to bring me home so that I could pour the words onto paper. And as I walked I nearly, but not quite, stepped onto a large grey ball of fluff that looked – exactly – like a…

Baby bird. There was a baby bird sitting in the middle of a public footpath at night. This could not be a good thing. Watching the words shimmer away from me I knelt beside it. Part of me wanted to keep on walking so I wouldn’t have to know, to be responsible. But I couldn’t. I knelt. Luckily there was no one around, so I was able to take my time. I brought my face down close, but not too close. I spoke softly to it. Centimetre by centimetre my finger moved closer to it, until eventually, with the lightest of touches, I stroked its downy, fluffy side. And it was downy; its feathers had not yet fully grown in. Even I know enough to realise that this meant it was quite young and probably not at all capable of looking after itself.

I was afraid of its beak. It’s crazy, but I am hugely afraid of anything that might cause pain and his beak looked very capable. I have no idea what he was. He was slightly larger than a grown sparrow but clearly a baby. His downy feathers were a pretty grey and his underside was white. His tail seemed short and stumpy and his beak was yellow (but then, I believe, baby birds often have yellow beaks). With that colouring and size I might have imagined him to be a baby gull of some kind (not that I’ve ever seen a baby gull), but then, I noticed that he had talons, not webbed feet. Whatever he was, it was not a gull. I could see no obvious sign of injury, but I couldn’t imagine that a perfectly healthy bird, baby or not, would remain sitting in the middle of the pavement at night.

Slowly I stroked more and more of him as I watched his heart beating and vibrating through his feathers. He did not protest or try to move away, which worried me. I had hoped that being accosted by a strange human might start him moving and I would discover that he was actually okay. That didn’t happen. Finally I got brave and went to gently cup him in both hands. To my surprise he hopped straight on to my left hand, clutching at my fingers, making no move to jump off again as I slowly stood up. His peck, when it came, was soft and gentle, exploratory. There was no attack in him. I couldn’t help but laugh at my earlier fear. Not knowing what else to do, I walked slowly home, talking to him all the way and hovering my right hand around my left, to catch him if he started to fall.

He scrambled a few times and I was pleased to see that he appeared to have enough use of his wings to balance himself. He simply made no effort to go anywhere but rode my finger like a dog riding in a bicycle basket, face to the wind. He was frightened but quiet and not unduly agitated. He was very warm and soft and it was a beautiful feeling, having him there. When I reached home, though, I was stumped. What would happen if I put him down? Would he scramble away? If I took him inside, would he get away before I could find something to put him in and become lost somewhere where I could not retrieve him? I sat down and dragged out my phone, googling “injured wildlife” one-handed. Finding the number to call, I waited an age on hold, before finally a girl answered. I asked if I should return him where I had found him or what I should do. She advised me to get him checked out and sent me the address of an emergency vet with a free wildlife service half an hour’s drive away.

What to do? I wandered around, afraid to knock on any doors. But then, luckily, I saw an old lady outside her apartment and I called to her. Protectiveness made me unusually bold. I asked if she had any way to get the bird to the vet. Her brow crumpled and she looked worried. She did not like to drive at night. Instead, she insisted on lending me her car! I was stunned. What person offers their car to a strange 23-year-old? But then, since when would I normally disturb neighbours at night, let alone consider accepting the offer? Baby birds have an odd habit of changing everything.

One ice cream container with holes punched roughly into the lid and a bunch of keys later, I found myself easing my new friend into his temporary shelter (he would much have preferred to stay on my hand) and wishing that the lady could have provided some soft tissue or something to sit on. He could find no purchase on the smooth plastic. But I did not like to ask for more. Besides, my mind was reeling with so much confusion that I’m not sure that further words were possible.

Thank goodness for the driver’s licence I had decided to earn, and thank goodness for GPS on phones, that guided me, in a strange car (fortunately a small one and easy to manoeuvre), through dark streets I had never travelled. My path even took me onto the motorway, which scared me. All the way, despite furiously trying to concentrate on my strange surroundings and unaccustomed driving, I chanted softly, my voice cracking a little. The bird had become used to the sound of my voice and I didn’t want to frighten him any more than I could help on this long journey. So I chanted and chanted, in a continuous loop, all the way to the vet’s. I was desperately relieved when finally I arrived. My responsibility was over. Or so I thought.

The receptionist disappeared into the vet’s office and reappeared less than a minute later. The bird, the vet had apparently pronounced, was fine. I was told that fledglings often rest on the ground for up to ten days before they learn to fly and their parents visit them only occasionally. They frequently trust humans, being too young to have learned otherwise. The vet, who also worked at the bird sanctuary, by strange good fortune, could take him there, but his chances were much higher back where I had found him. “Put him in a tree,” I was told, “as near as possible to where you found him.” I asked what kind of bird he might be but the receptionist didn’t know. She hadn’t asked, and the vet was busy. She was very kind and helpful, but I now knew as much as she did. I was dismissed, back into the night.

In my confusion I did not think to ask, “But what about food and water? Surely a baby must need plenty of both?” It was only as I drove back, with the full moon watching over all and me still chanting softly with an ever-drier and more anxious throat, that the questions crowded in. If a baby bird had a greater chance of survival in an exposed public park away from his parents than in the bird sanctuary, then his chances must be very slim indeed. The very fact that the vet had given no instructions about food and water now seemed ominous. It was as though she had already dismissed the bird’s cause as hopeless. But, not knowing what better to do than to follow the advice of the experts (the web sites I quickly consulted said the same), I did as I was told. I wanted desperately by now to take him home with me, but what if I did feed him? Would he become completely dependent and unable to fend for himself? Was my own desire to protect overriding the natural order of freedom?

I found for him a nicely hollowed fork in a tree, out of which he couldn’t easily fall, and where he would not be completely exposed. There he would be safe at least from dogs, if not from snakes and possums. The more I looked at him though, the more misgivings I felt. How would he survive without food and water? Would his parents be able to find him in the morning? I half thought to race off to a shop to buy an eye dropper to feed him with, but his eyes were already closing and he tucked his head under his wing, attempting to sleep. That decided me. If he could sleep now it was possibly the best thing for him and the less I further disturbed him the better. The tears fell as I watched him, knowing that I was about to abandon him. I felt like a murderer. Death through ignorance. I called a hopeless, heartfelt prayer to the tree and to the moon, asking them to protect this little one from harm. I asked that he might live and thrive, and fly free. And I slowly, uselessly, wandered back to the car.

The old lady seemed completely unfazed by the time it took me to return and also seemed untroubled by the bird’s fate. She happily accepted the verdict of the professional and, given that she had not held him as I had, she had no reason to feel a strong bond of attachment. I went home to bed, and dreamt, not of birds or of driving strange cars through the night, but of being captured myself. I dreamt of the pain and unfairness of captivity.

This morning I went to the beach as usual, forcing myself not to race straight to the tree to find out what had become of my abandoned friend. I wanted to check whether he was still alive. I thought that even if I could provide water it would buy him more time. But I also wanted to give his parents a chance to find him without humans around. So I walked the beach. Soft, golden rays lit the sky and to the west; the great moon still watched. Gulls flew past, confident in their power, and everything invited me to believe that everything in the universe was just exactly as it should be. But it was not as it should be for one little bird. The tears fell again.

When at last I allowed myself to return to the tree, I approached with my breath held. What would I see? I was terrified to know but I couldn’t put it off any longer. The tree hollow was empty. Not even a feather remained and there was no sign of a disturbance. The ground all around was clear. Where is he? What has happened to my little friend? Probably he has provided a meal for a larger creature. Maybe another person found him and took him away, hopefully to care for him, better than I had managed. Maybe even his parents found him after all, and he managed to flutter far enough to reach a new roost. I can never know, but I fear. Was I right to do as I was told or should I have followed my own instincts? But then, even my instincts were unclear, ambiguous and contradictory. My ignorance is a danger.

Two strange birds in one day! In the morning a large, speckled, fluffy and plumed bird wandering the garden, creating a disturbance among the magpies, and in the evening, a fledgling who learned to trust, but who also badly needed to learn to fly. What message shall I take from this? How shall I look at birds from now on? And what price freedom? The cost of freedom is terrifying indeed. I do not understand this dance of life with death.