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.