Peep
Walter can be such a child sometimes. I love that twinkle in his eyes like at that time when I came home in the evening, just as it was getting dark, and he told me he had something to show me. Signaling for me to be very quiet, he took my hand and guided me to the avocado tree in the backyard. On a low branch there was a tiny bundle of feathers that looked pale against the shadows. We walked back into the house and he told me how he was sitting in the back deck and the little thing just flew and sat on that branch, apparently for the night.
“We cannot leave him there,” I protested immediately, “something will happen to him.”
“I don’t know if it’s a wild bird or someone’s lost pet.” Walter reasoned.
“That is clearly someone’s lost pet,” I responded, “it won’t survive out there!”
We weren’t in the least prepared to rescue a canary; we didn’t have a place to put it while we tried to find its owner; yet, with darkness falling quickly, we knew we had to act. We took Fiesta’s kennel, which is made of metal wires, put a blanket around it, a stick across through the center, and voila, we had our bird rescue site.
It was easy for Walter to grab the baby and bring it inside. He placed him on the stick, covered it with the blanket, and for added measure, we closed the door to the room where we had place the makeshift birdcage.
I accuse Walter of being a child, but I can be a big child myself sometimes also. With excitement, the next morning, I opened the door slowly, as soon as I woke up, to see how our guest had spent the night. I found him outside the “cage,” on top of the blanket. So much for keeping him contained!
I grabbed the smallest seeds from our bird seeds we kept handy and served him his breakfast. I expected him to sing with joy; instead, all I got was a couple of “peeps.” “Come on, little one,” I urged, “you can do better than that.” Typical of my human habit, I was expecting instant gratification for my efforts. The task at hand for the morning: try to find out if anyone in the neighborhood had lost a lovely bird.
We ask our immediate neighbors and people from further down the street walking their dogs, but nobody knew of anybody who’d lost a bird. We figured he could have the room for the day, and fiesta wouldn’t mind giving up her kennel one more night.
The next day, thinking this was to become a permanent resident, I went on Craig’s list and found a birdcage, with all the bell and whistles included, and bought it for ten dollars.
The bird was so happy in it, Walter joked that the guy I got the cage from was perhaps the one who’d lost the bird, and that was the bird’s original home. Something that was not possible given the fact there were spider webs on it when I picked it up. Then we had the task of finding an appropriate name for our new “child.”
“Peep” became the baby’s name. We decided it was a female since, to our knowledge, female canaries were the ones who didn’t sing.
I quickly grew fond and attached to that sound. “Peep, peep” I would hear every time I stepped into the room. In a couple of weeks, having another pet in the house had become routine. I changed the water every morning, along with the food. At night, I would cover with a blanket the cage, which had found it’s place in a corner by the window overlooking the backyard.
My grandmother loved birds. She said that it was a good omen to have birds nesting in one’s house or property. She said that birds are very sensitive to good, positive energy. A bird would never come near you if you were full of negativity; therefore I took it as a great sign that this baby would choose our avocado tree to spend the night when he had lost his original home. Someone’s loss had become our blessing and we welcomed it with open arms.
When I was in the house, I would take Peep in his cage outside. I would hang it from a branch under the avocado tree, believing it was the best treat for the little thing. I was aware there was a cat in the backyard, so I always kept a close eye on the baby when it was outside. One day, I came back to find the cage hanging askew, perfectly close, not a feather indicating a cat had gotten into it, and the baby forever gone.
I hated feeling like a failure. I had failed this creature and the universe’s trust in me that I could care for this baby. My grandmother was spinning in her grave pissed off at what she would consider her responsibility for not teaching me to be responsible for other life forms.
Ultimately, it was another reminder of a life lesson that seems to elude my understanding: Life is to be lived, with all its inglorious glory and terrific beauty. The lesson is not to be learned, it is to be received. Life is not about happiness, deliverance from sorrow, or creating anything. It is about experiencing it. Now you feel good, then bad, then good again. Today you receive a “good” omen, then a “bad” one, then a “good” one again.
Those who focus on being this vessel of “goodness,” of “positivity,” know nothing of the nature of the world.
It was Octavio Paz who wrote that the verb to be was the most meaningless verb in any language because it relies on what follows in order to have meaning.
That is the lesson I haven’t learned. I don’t know how to simply BE. I hang on to every feeling, experience and memory as if the rest of my life depended on it. My problem: I don’t think I wish to learn.
Walter can be such a child sometimes. I love that twinkle in his eyes like at that time when I came home in the evening, just as it was getting dark, and he told me he had something to show me. Signaling for me to be very quiet, he took my hand and guided me to the avocado tree in the backyard. On a low branch there was a tiny bundle of feathers that looked pale against the shadows. We walked back into the house and he told me how he was sitting in the back deck and the little thing just flew and sat on that branch, apparently for the night.
“We cannot leave him there,” I protested immediately, “something will happen to him.”
“I don’t know if it’s a wild bird or someone’s lost pet.” Walter reasoned.
“That is clearly someone’s lost pet,” I responded, “it won’t survive out there!”
We weren’t in the least prepared to rescue a canary; we didn’t have a place to put it while we tried to find its owner; yet, with darkness falling quickly, we knew we had to act. We took Fiesta’s kennel, which is made of metal wires, put a blanket around it, a stick across through the center, and voila, we had our bird rescue site.
It was easy for Walter to grab the baby and bring it inside. He placed him on the stick, covered it with the blanket, and for added measure, we closed the door to the room where we had place the makeshift birdcage.
I accuse Walter of being a child, but I can be a big child myself sometimes also. With excitement, the next morning, I opened the door slowly, as soon as I woke up, to see how our guest had spent the night. I found him outside the “cage,” on top of the blanket. So much for keeping him contained!
I grabbed the smallest seeds from our bird seeds we kept handy and served him his breakfast. I expected him to sing with joy; instead, all I got was a couple of “peeps.” “Come on, little one,” I urged, “you can do better than that.” Typical of my human habit, I was expecting instant gratification for my efforts. The task at hand for the morning: try to find out if anyone in the neighborhood had lost a lovely bird.
We ask our immediate neighbors and people from further down the street walking their dogs, but nobody knew of anybody who’d lost a bird. We figured he could have the room for the day, and fiesta wouldn’t mind giving up her kennel one more night.
The next day, thinking this was to become a permanent resident, I went on Craig’s list and found a birdcage, with all the bell and whistles included, and bought it for ten dollars.
The bird was so happy in it, Walter joked that the guy I got the cage from was perhaps the one who’d lost the bird, and that was the bird’s original home. Something that was not possible given the fact there were spider webs on it when I picked it up. Then we had the task of finding an appropriate name for our new “child.”
“Peep” became the baby’s name. We decided it was a female since, to our knowledge, female canaries were the ones who didn’t sing.
I quickly grew fond and attached to that sound. “Peep, peep” I would hear every time I stepped into the room. In a couple of weeks, having another pet in the house had become routine. I changed the water every morning, along with the food. At night, I would cover with a blanket the cage, which had found it’s place in a corner by the window overlooking the backyard.
My grandmother loved birds. She said that it was a good omen to have birds nesting in one’s house or property. She said that birds are very sensitive to good, positive energy. A bird would never come near you if you were full of negativity; therefore I took it as a great sign that this baby would choose our avocado tree to spend the night when he had lost his original home. Someone’s loss had become our blessing and we welcomed it with open arms.
When I was in the house, I would take Peep in his cage outside. I would hang it from a branch under the avocado tree, believing it was the best treat for the little thing. I was aware there was a cat in the backyard, so I always kept a close eye on the baby when it was outside. One day, I came back to find the cage hanging askew, perfectly close, not a feather indicating a cat had gotten into it, and the baby forever gone.
I hated feeling like a failure. I had failed this creature and the universe’s trust in me that I could care for this baby. My grandmother was spinning in her grave pissed off at what she would consider her responsibility for not teaching me to be responsible for other life forms.
Ultimately, it was another reminder of a life lesson that seems to elude my understanding: Life is to be lived, with all its inglorious glory and terrific beauty. The lesson is not to be learned, it is to be received. Life is not about happiness, deliverance from sorrow, or creating anything. It is about experiencing it. Now you feel good, then bad, then good again. Today you receive a “good” omen, then a “bad” one, then a “good” one again.
Those who focus on being this vessel of “goodness,” of “positivity,” know nothing of the nature of the world.
It was Octavio Paz who wrote that the verb to be was the most meaningless verb in any language because it relies on what follows in order to have meaning.
That is the lesson I haven’t learned. I don’t know how to simply BE. I hang on to every feeling, experience and memory as if the rest of my life depended on it. My problem: I don’t think I wish to learn.
