UU Animal Ministry Spirit of Life Column, December 2010

Dear Friends,

I just finished the first of three months sabbatical that I’m taking this church year. I took a month to read and reflect on a writing project that I will be doing with the next two months of sabbatical in spring. I went to a retreat center in the Tuscany region of Italy where I was shepherded around by a good friend there.  It was, indeed, a privilege to take a trip like this. I did rest, read, and wrote some about how we construct notions of the self in relation to the rest of nature and other than human animals. I took long walks in the beautiful countryside, visited cathedrals and castles, and bakeries, and of course, I went to Assisi.

            One of the things that I noticed wherever I went was the presence of cats. There were cats that live with people, cats that seem to live outside but are cared for by people, and cats that are clearly feral. With the exception of one feral cat, the cats looked healthy. None of them were fixed. It seems that this isn’t a sensibility where I stayed. While I loved seeing the kitties, I wondered at the huge cultural shift that would need to happen for spay and neutering to become the norm.

                                            Kitty at a castle

                                            Street kitties

                                            Gustavo, my friend, Gianluigi's cat

Tuscany is truly a beautiful place. The countryside is quiet and pastoral. I went on hikes, and as I mentioned, visited churches. I would pause and breathe in the clean, fresh-from-rain air. It didn’t take long before I noticed what sounded like cars backfiring in the distance, and it didn’t take long before I realized that I was hearing gunshots. My friend confirmed for me that it was hunting season.

On one outing, we visited a lovely progressive Catholic community whose mission emphasizes peace and contemplation of nature. The view from the property of the church was stunning. It was one of the few sunny days of my 11-day stay. I stood at a low wooden fence overlooking the countryside.

                                            View from a church of peace 

As I breathed a prayer of peace for the world and all beings, my reverie was shattered by the sound of a gun. A few moments later I was startled to see a hunter emerge from the woods, his dog followed quickly behind him. How could they be so close to this place? I started talking loudly and gesturing wildly, hoping to distract the hunter or scare the birds that were his prey. I wasn’t close enough to have an effect – he didn’t even notice me as he retreated back into the woods. No more shots. A little while later I saw the hunter reemerge with dog and gun in tow. For reasons I don’t really understand I lifted my camera and shot. Just at that moment, with the camera still up to my eye, I heard the gun shot. I lowered my camera in time to see the hunter with his gun lowered, a bird flying and the dog running. Reeling back, I grasped the fence so that I wouldn’t fall backwards. My body felt numb and I was light-headed. It was as if a shock went through my body. I wanted to cry and I couldn’t speak for a time.

My friends walked me away silently.

When I downloaded my pictures from the day I realized that my body felt what my eye didn’t register.

                                           The hunter and the prey

I had caught the hunter shooting the bird. 

I left that place, and am left with, the juxtaposition of the beauty of the place and the ugliness of the act. I am left with images of unspeakable beauty and heartbreaking tragedy.

May all beings be happy, may all beings be free from suffering.

Blessings to you dear ones…

beth

 

The Return of Hope...

"Hope is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—"  Emily Dickinson

 They're back. Hope with feathers. It took about four or five days, but slowly the birds returned. Each day I walked outside and called for them. "Birds." One morning, after I called to them,  three finches flitted down from the bushes onto the short retaining wall in the yard. They pecked at the food I'd laid out for them, but they were skittish. The least movement and they were gone.

The next day, I woke up early, sat up to look in the yard and saw that the doves had returned. And I mean they showed up. I counted 15 doves, and the finches came too, and the phoebe who'd made herself scarce as well, and the hummingbirds too. They all came back. Yesterday there were at least 20 doves in the yard - I couldn't get an accurate count...the finches share well with the doves - they're busy everyday now. All of the birds startle easily now, but they don't fly from the tree where they perch waiting for me to finish putting out their seed. They stand like sentries, all alert and anxious. As soon as I walk into the house they flutter down to the feeders and wall, gobbling up the tasty morsels.

Birds, all birds, have long had the power to shape my experience. Small birds touch me with their sweet little bodies, so fragile-seeming, but they dance with purpose. Their chatter sings in my heart.

I have a special place in my heart for doves. The coo of a dove can stop me in my tracks. I could hear a dove over a brass band. They center me and gently stir my soul like some ancient memory...

Dove is a sacred bird in many traditions. They are sacred to the Goddess Athena, representing the renewal of life. They are messengers of hope and the promise peace. Dove is the spirit of  Life that flutters into our lives assuring us of the presence of Love amidst sorrow and loss, providing stillness and serenity, awakening in us embracing Love.

When 20 plus doves show up in my yard after a surprising absence, I can only respond with deep gratitude and love...

Thanksgiving blessings...

A Sorrowful Silence

They're gone. The birds that grace my yard and my life with their sweet bodies and excited chatter are gone.

I returned home after two weeks in Italy to find that my birds -  yes, my birds - had stopped coming to feed. I spoke with my house sitter, Val, the night I got home. In her update about how the kitties fared in my absence, she told me that the feeders were little used. She hadn't had to refill them at all. This is unusual as I am constantly replenishing the food for my hungry finches, towhees and doves.

Val was concerned enough that she made a special trip to Wild Birds Unlimited to ask what might have caused the birds to abandon a sure source of food. The folks at the store suggested that perhaps a hawk had shown up in the neighborhood, and indeed, they were right. Remember the little bird I wrote about who flew away frantically when a hawk swooped into the yard? Before I left on my trip that hawk paid several visits.

Just two days before I flew off myself, the large, beautiful, white and brown hawk had appeared on the fence near a tree where the birds sat around. I was struck by the hawk's size, the smoothness of his feathers, the sharp beak - he was majestic. I admired him. And I worried about him. I knew that his very presence frightened the little birds.

It was late in the evening when I got the news of my birds, but I received other sad news as well. A neighbor's cat, Cosmo, an interesting and smart kitty whose territory included the entire block, has been missing for over a week. I drifted off to sleep with thoughts of Cosmo.

I woke up alert at 5:30 am and laid in bed while the sky lightened and realized that I was waiting. I was waiting for the chirps and chattering that accompanied dawn in my backyard. I had come to count on those birds - they are part of the very fabric of me.

I was stunned by the stillness in my yard. My heart started to ache and I could feel the loss as an emptiness in the pit of my stomach - that lurching feeling of dread and disbelief. Could they really be gone? What if they don't come back? I really can't imagine that. I knew the birds were important to me, but even I was taken off guard by the depth of the experience.

 As is my custom I walked outside to call the birds. Usually I call out, "good morning birds!" This first morning of absence I simply called out, "birds..." Nothing. No little bodies preparing to descend on the freshly spread seed.

A sorrowful silence.

 My friend and colleague, Rev. Stefanie Etzbach-Dale, used that phrase to describe this silence. Silence is never empty. Silence is full of whatever we are feeling and experiencing in the moment. I have known contented silence when sitting quietly with a loved one. I have known blissful silence when  feeling myself connected to all that is. I have known apprehensive silence while awaiting medical test results.

This was a sorrowful silence. A silence full of the lack of presence. A silence full of longing.

I peered into my neighbor's yard. She'd started to feed the birds as well, but her full feeder told me they hadn't migrated next door.

The next day, sitting at my table looking into the yard, I saw the shadow of a large bird pass over. It was an ominous sight. The sorrowful silence deepened and settled into my bones.