Category Archives: bluebirds

Surprise: Rose-Breasted Grosbeak

IMG_6335What a joy it is for me to see a new bird at the feeder!

Yesterday morning, a male grosbeak appeared on my feeders. Despite it’s muted fall colors, the triangle of red breast is unmistakable. The eyebrow streak is prominent, the black and white spotted wings definitive.

Apparently grosbeaks migrate through my part of Florida in September and October, usually as solitary birds. I got a photo to reassure myself: I know what this is.

What else will surprise me today?

I finally talked to my son yesterday. I was frustrated I had not been able to reach him for several days. I complained; he grew angry and resistant. This is an old pattern for us, often because I insist on my way. Sometimes I’m right, but often I need to take more gentle approach. That works better with him.

To be honest, it’s been challenging to raise a son as a single mother. Growing up in a household of girls myself, I’ve felt disadvantaged at times. I find I either hold him far too close or let him drift out too far. Thankfully, I’ve had help from many different wise advisors along the way.

This time, when I insisted he set a time for him to call me back, his voice rose in anger in frustration.  “You can call me, you know!” “I have called you, “ I retorted, “hundreds of times since last week!” On that note, he hung up on me.

Wait! This was not the loving, kind, caring, compassionate, understanding, nurturing phone call I’d planned! My resolve must be stronger than my anger to communicate effectively with him.

Sigh.

So, what I supposed to learn from this? What is the message of this migratory visit from the rose-breasted grosbeak? Do I know what this is?

I’ll look it up, but I’m guessing it’s something like, Life is unpredictable. Keep watching, and take advantage of connection opportunities when you can. They will be there.

That reassures me slightly, if not entirely.

Here.
In the single mother garden.

~~~~~~

From: Animal Speak:  The Spiritual, Magical Powers of Animal Creatures Great and Small 

  • “This beautiful little bird can teach us much about proper family relationships. It can help us in healing family hugs and restoring family love.”
  • “It will help you in seeing family patterns that you have brought over into your present life, along with your present family members.”
  • “The grosbeak awakens a new pride and nobleness in the family process.”
  • “The grosbeak has on its chest a rose-colored triangle that looks like a bleeding heart.  This totem can help teach us to heal all of the old wounds and hurts of family origin.”
  • “The grosbeak helps us to see our family relationships as a true melody, each note separate but part of the larger whole.”

Reflection:
Wow.  I’m astounded that’s the symbolism of the grosbeak! A clear indication from the Universe that the time is now to begin the work of healing old family wounds, whatever they may be.

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The Perfect Job

ImageI found the perfect job for my 17-year-old son the other day.  It’s at the Wild Birds Unlimited store.  They need someone to unload the seed bags from the truck, move heavy boxes, and attend to the sales floor if needed.
Someone who likes nature.
Who likes birds.
Who likes people.
It’s perfect for him!

Which is why, when I suggested it, he immediately said, “No.”

“Sure, Mom.  I can just hear me telling my friends, ‘I can’t hang out with you because I have to go to work at the Wild Birds store,'” he said, a slight smile curving his lips.  Like, “Aww, Mom.  Aren’t you cute!” and then, “Fuggetaboutit!”

Sigh.  OK. That plan did not work out.  Big surprise. However, I won’t lose hope.  His dad has big plans to get him a job this summer, so I’ll wait to see how that works out.

In the meantime, my 19-year-old daughter is home from college, and, after a stimulating conversation last week about why I will not provide unlimited funds for new clothes, even if she goes to Forever 21, she called up a few restaurants to set up interviews. The next day, she got a job.  Then she applied for an internship at the Women’s Center, and on Monday, she was working there.

So there you go.  And I had absolutely nothing to do with it.  Well, maybe a little to do with it.  But, I’m thrilled. It seems that my children DO have their own ideas and opinions, so, I need to let them try them out.

This morning, I’m sitting here in my garden, watching the juvenile bluebirds hanging around the mealworm dish.  They open their mouths, hoping the parents will feed them.  But it seems that won’t work anymore. The parents ignore them and then fly off back to the nest box to feed the newest clutch. It’s time for these fledglings to fend for themselves.

So, here we are, sharing that experience, me and the bluebirds, as we watch out children grow.  We are doing what we have to do, even if it hurts a little to let them go.

Here.
In the garden.

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Springtime

IMG_5239Spring shadows and first lilies.
The nuthatches have nested in the bluebird box and
the cool weather will soon be gone.
Just not quite yet.

 

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Camille’s Birthday

Journal Entry
February 19, 2014

Camille’s Birthday

Oh, what a joy it is, to have a daughter!
Oh, how I can remember EXACTLY
what it was like when she was born —
the entire birth process, from waking up at 3 a.m.
when I felt the contractions start
to driving to the hospital
(and stopping for video camera cartridges)
and how the bumps in the road
triggered more contractions,
and standing in the bathroom
alone feeling a little sorry for myself,
knowing the pain that was coming,
to sitting in my bed
to try to manage my contractions
(dumb; I worked so hard at it that
I actually slowed down the birth process,

which Jack later pointed out),
to fussing at him for making noises
like crackling the newspaper and
squeaking his shoes on the floor,
to him feeding me ice chips from a styrofoam cup
to almost throwing up

from the pain and holding on to him
and then standing up and pushing with him
for three entire hours! and then seeing the crown
of her head in the mirror and summoning
the last of my strength
to push push push so they would not have to
grab her head with the suction cup
and then finally, finally out she came,
that beautiful rose-colored baby 8 pounds 9 ounces
I will never forget
and her will her indomitable will
as she lustily cried her lungs out while the poor nurses
tried to clean her up and ink her foot for a footprint,
and then wrapped in my arms again, tight
in a cotton blanket with a knit cap
in baby colors against our red and blue pillow case
behind me as I looked down at her
feeling absolutely triumphant
and Jack was outside crying
and then we were back again together
showing her off to family but
I never once never even once thought of
letting anyone else hold her
and then finally the next day my mother came
and she held her in her lap
and unwrapped the blankets so she could see
her perfect little body with her strawberry mark
on her shoulder and the dark, dark hair
covering her head, and Jack’s face
inches from hers adoring her
and we were so, so happy.

Camille Rose Guidry
February 19, 1995
9:19 p.m.
Touro Infirmary
New Orleans, Louisiana

photo

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The Bluebirds Came to Visit Me Today

The bluebirds came to visit me today.  I stepped outside this morning, onto the front porch, and heard their burbling call before I saw them. The male was perched on a feeder, the female was flying around the nest box. They stopped briefly to take a look at me.

IMG_4244Hello, Dear Ones!
Happy New Year!

Their coats are dusty blue, shaded by winter, but still lovely to see.  The male, perhaps conscious of my appreciation, shyly showed his back to me, then, with a quick hop, displayed his dusty red breast on the other side.

The brilliant red of a jaunty cardinal on another feeder provided a sharp contrast. He was lovely against the dull winter browns outside, even here in green Florida. Then the crisp black cap of the chickadee was revealed as she landed on the feeder, chased off again by a scolding tufted titmouse dressed in sharp grays and warm browns.  I fell in love with the tawny stripe under his wing, so vulnerable against the creamy white of his belly.

As I returned to my chair in the living room, I saw that no birds were paying attention to the feeder in the backyard. That’s OK.  I was cheered by the bright tangerine orange of my new cushions on the garden furniture, a treat to myself for Christmas.

So. A new year begins. I am filled with fresh ideas, dreams and plans, as exciting as tangerine orange, but still in development, like the blue on the back of the winter bluebird.

I can wait.
And hope.
And dream.

Anticipating the gifts of the year, like the sudden flash of colorful birds, landing on a feeder.

Here.
In the garden.

p.s. Photo is my slightly edited version of  the latest cover of Bluebird Magazine, which I subscribe to as a member of the North American Bluebird Society. 

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The Happiness Project, Revisited

As I await winter solstice, the nights are long, and the days are short.  This is a variation of Gretchen Rubin’s truism: “The days are long, but the years are short.”

IMG_4226

I will remember these years, of getting the children off to school.  These high school years, when I did it on my own.  Anchored by my chair, and my journal, I have been present for them, preparing breakfast, helping to find socks, watching the time; all the while, they grew up.

I’ve been waiting to see if Matt would get up, without me reminding him again. Waiting to see if Camille made it out on time, so I wouldn’t have to threaten to drive her to school myself the next day. Waiting to see if the birds would come to rest at the bird feeder in line of sight from my chair; I pause to check them out as I write.

This morning, three cardinals came to rest on the iron table under the feeder — a bright red male, a juvenile in dull browns, and a female. How long will they stay?  I wait to see.

Sitting in this circle of light, I am glad to have been Here, Now, available to my children, and my own self, as we each face the day.

Seasons pass.
Years pass.
Eras pass.

Soon, I will not have any children left to rouse, and the mornings will be different.  But today, I’ll be grateful, for the flash of red, for the circle of light, for the honey toast crusts left on the Matthew’s plate.  All the joys, the simple joys, of being Here, Now, in this moment, in winter’s light.

“There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground, ” says Rumi.

Here.
In the garden.

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The Chapel

Thank you, Divine Mother, for my beautiful chapel, for my red bench pew, for my pine tree altar, as I am attended by the soul birds around me.  (Is it an accident that angels are depicted with wings?)

Sitting on my red pew, drinking my rich brown, morning coffee in the flowered chalice offered by my daughter, I am at one with the Divine, the Good Earth, the way of peace.

IMG_1557The tiny kinglet darts back and forth above my head, playing in the dusty green leaves of Florida’s fall.  The red-capped chipping sparrow eats peacefully at the feeders, unperturbed by my presence.  And far off, the winter-brown bluebird sings, his voice, at least, not camouflaged by the long nights and short days before winter solstice.

Back inside, I light the candle on the piano altar, and two other candles around the room, warming this “inside chapel” of my living room with spirit light.  Gently, my fingers touch the two feathers next to the Tibetan bell, a tiny bluebird feather, a richly colored cardinal feather.

And I smile with the joy of waking up, waking up to the pleasures of the spiritual life, of the clarion call, of the golden circle, of the blank pages of the day.

To love morning.
This is to be alive.

Here.
In the garden.

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The mama bluebird nestles

In the photograph, the mama bluebird nestles into the nest box.

Beauty, is my first thought.
How lovely she is!
Large, black eyes.
Beautifully aligned beak.
Her perfectly symmetrical head,
covered with the light and the dark.

Blue feathers.
Purple nest.
Brown wing tips.
Small, round opening from behind allows the light.

a143b0682ae811e3bc2222000a1f98f9_5I remember watching her build this nest on the “bird cam” we set up.  At first, she collected bits of the long, pine straw needles and laid them in the bottom of the box.  Eventually, she would hop into the box, lay dawn a straw, then twist and turn her little body, her tiny claws scratching an opening that was softened by the curve of her breast.

Over and over, she entered, nestled, and flew out again. It seemed a bit of an invasion of her privacy, but I hoped for her forgiveness.  I was learning so much, about how to build a nest, how to make a circle.

The nest box squared the circle.  Inside the edges, a universe opened up. And in this cosmos, the bottom of the nest, the chalice, the darkness, the center, the circle…she laid an egg.  And then another. And another. And another. Each sky blue oval was another universe, the infinity of the possibility of creation, the yoke inside — the golden circle — a place of infinite growth.

It was a lovely process to watch.

The first time I saw her enter the nest box, I hollered for the kids. ‟She’s in there, she’s in there!” I called.  They came running.  And when  first egg appeared, they were both thrilled.  (At least, that’s the way this mama bluebird chooses to remember it.)

To find my center,
I scratch with my feet a little,
and hunker down,
and rub my chest into the rough spots,
smoothing them with my love,
my patience,
my faith in the miracle of the circle.
A miracle of holiness.
A miracle of wholeness.

Here.
In the garden.

— from a journaling prompt, to describe a photograph, at the Women’s Circles, Women’s Stories writing retreat at the Center for Journal Therapy, Denver, CO, July 18, 2013

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Digging In The Dirt

Just for fun, here’s an interview with me that my colleague and friend, Jean Rowe, wrote for The Center for Journal Therapy last fall.  Some good dirt on me!  (Jean is the Program Manager and Oncology Certified Social Worker at Young Survival Coalition in Atlanta, and leads journaling workshops for young survivors.)

What is your relationship between actual gardening and journaling?

My garden is both a metaphor for my life and a literal experience, where I can connect with myself and the earth. In my journal, I write about both experiences. In the process, I learn a lot, about myself and about the world. Plus, I often write IN the garden. I have a bench in my front yard, tucked under a tree and near my bluebird nest box, and it is a delightful spot to journal in the early morning, among the birds and flowers.

What have your harvested from the garden that is your journal?

Stability. It’s an anchor, a root system, one that keeps me grounded. I write in my journal every morning, without fail, and often throughout the day. It’s how I find out what’s going on with me, how I process the events of my life, and connect with my spiritual self. These are all activities I did not do very well until recently.

Here’s the link for the rest of the article: http://twinstitute.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/C4JT-E-Zine-Autumn-2012-smaller.pdf

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The bluebirds are back!

Daddy and Mama Bluebird survey their new domain.

The other day, my son Matthew woke up not feeling well, and complained that his throat was hoarse and swollen.  As I glanced at his nearby iPad, I wondered briefly if he was just overtired, and felt the tug of guilt.  Was he not getting enough rest because I was letting him use his electronics too much? Was he up late on his iPad?  Did he just not feel like going to school today?

But sometimes I need to just believe him. So, I did,  And, in fact, when he woke up later, I could tell he was genuinely quite sick. However, by mid-afternoon, he was feeling better, and happened to be standing in my office with me when we noticed the bluebirds flying around the nest box.

“Mom!’ he said.  “We have to set up the camera in the nest box!”  Forgetting he was not well, he wanted to go out immediately and hook up the wires.  I know from experience that if my kids want to do something with me, especially in the garden, I better hop to it pronto! So I said, “Yes.”

Blue back, red breast, on the alert.

We looked around for the power cord after setting everything up, but it could not be found.  Impatient to know what to do, Matthew called the bird place himself, and found out that I could pick up a power cord the next day. “Mom, you gotta make sure you go tomorrow!” he stressed.  “It’s free, too!” he assured me.

But the next day he was still sick, so he asked if we could go together to get the cord.  He took the lead, going into the store first and talking to the guy.  By the time I followed, he had already gotten what we needed. “He’s a very mature young man,” said the store owner, smiling at me.

Of course, we fixed up the power cord at home, fussed with the focus, and finally, voila!  There was the mama bluebird!  She had already started building, and we could watch as she brought bits and pieces of pine straw, leaves, grass and moss inside the box to fill the nest, using her body to press and “schootch” them into place.

The mama scooches down into the nest with her belly, making a snug hollow for the eggs.

I’ve been sitting out on the front bench most mornings since, feeding the bluebirds and watching them go in and out of the nest box.  I’ve taken photos and had little conversations with them, to make sure they are comfortable with me sitting out there.  The show has been terrific.  The other day, the male bird “saluted” me!  And I’ve had fun posting photos on instagram.

Salute!

As we’ve watched on the monitor for these past few days, the nest has gotten much thicker and much softer. No light shines through the bottom anymore, and the surface looks soft and fine, not just pine straw as it was before.

And last night, on the Spring Equinox, I saw something else.  “Quick,” I called out to Matthew and Camille. “Come see!” They both came running. I’d seen something new in the nest box: two sky-blue eggs.

Sky blue.

So. Spring has sprung.  The potential of the world is captured in two eggs, a snug nest, and a full heart.  Happiness is available to us, despite the sadness in the world.  Here.  In the garden.

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