I keep raving and ranting enough about my Ca garden, or lack thereof. Actually I'd rephrase it if I may. I keep answering the better half's question about moving to a new place this way - "I wish to move to a smaller carpeted area and a backyard that has more nature in it. By that I mean to have a large redwood or two, space to have a garden bench, some patio furniture, paving stones with lady bugs painted on, baby's breath adorning the sides of pavers, a good length and breath to house all the plants trees, bushes and shrubs without packing them like sardines like we have them now and the whole shebang. I'll truncate the dream garden here so it doesn't sound like a re imagination of "If you give a mouse a cookie". - In short - I want a garden of sorts, bigger than the house. Then I look back into my humble yard and realize we do have enough ammunition already. It just takes some still moments and a will to spot but I do see squirrels that feed on our juicy nectarines, pears and almonds, looking fat enough to pass off as healthy piglets, humming birds, butterflies (I swear I spotted a couple of monarch butterflies with wings large enough to belong on a sparrow),Blue jays, I even spotted a Indigo bunting the other day and some Goldfinches. I won't speak of the Praying mantis, lady bugs and rolypolies, or the slugs and snails. They are abundant and keep me occupied for hours to end, if I so choose to be occupied by them and I have the hours to waste :) So anyway, I have enough realization to know that the 'nature' I have around is enough as such.
But it took me a minute to register this Dove I spotted, sitting pretty snug, her feathers puffed up due to the rain outside in the empty hanging flower pot on the arbor right by my kitchen window. The window frames the sink and kind of provides me with the much needed respite of a view of the humble garden and robust squirrels that feast on the bounty, while I do my most favorite activity (not) of this home making career - which is scouring pots and pans. "OMG, is she on the family way?" My mind started its usual dialogue. "What if the wind knocks down the pot? What if there would be predators hunting the bird and her eggs? Where in the world is the daddy bird? Vacationing by the beach in Malibu while this lady toils away?? Why is nature so cruel to the female species?"
I couldn't leave the birdie alone. Every free minute I had was spent looking at her makeshift nest of a hanging pot, worrying sick that the fledglings should make it out in the proverbial 'flying colors'. I decided to play the nurse in the maternity nursing home and one early morning, I took the 'mommy to be' some breakfast. She made intense eye contact as I approached her with caution and left the food by her side. As I kept a watch for the rest of the day, I realized that my hot breakfast had no takers. It got cold and crumbled as the day passed by. Later that noon, I saw a fat little blue jay feasting on the stale pieces of idlies and cursed myself silly for doing this to the mother by attracting other creatures around her labor room and causing the commotion. So the next few days, I kept my noble intentions to play the catering truck cum nurse to myself and watched the bird from the other side of the window pane. It seemed as if she developed a familiarity with the strange staring lady on this side of the window. She didn't mind. She sat way into oblivion day and night after day and night and I let her natural intelligence do the work for her and kept my mediocre intelligence and good intentions to myself. The happiest of my 'watching the Dove' moment occurred when I saw the her with her significant other. Well, well - the parents took turns apparently and I ate humble pie and took back the sense of victimhood I felt for the entire female species of planet earth.
The second happiest moment happened a week later - A baby bird was spotted. The mom ( may be the dad did the day shift after all if my googling is to be quoted) shuffled the little fledgling back under her warm underside and sat pretty, looking at me. I smiled at her. I hope she didn't snarl at me. Thankfully, the bird was just as emotive as Scar in the reimagined Lion King movie. I couldn't make much out of her emotions toward the hostess, even with my infamously rich imagination. But the empty pot served its destiny. One day after returning home from my drop off duties in the morning, I spotted a stark empty pot. It was a bitter sweet moment. I felt really glad that the operation 'flying colors' was a grand success and an immense sadness about not being there to see the grand finale of the successful endeavor that I somehow played a part in. Talk about existential crisis ;) But truth be told, I was more happy than sad. It felt, perhaps, like how a grandmother would feel, upon seeing the grandkids all grown and flying out the nest.
I know, the title of this blog seems like a plot hole at this point - but here comes the take away. The little birdie taught me a very important lesson - a lesson of carrying out duties with aplomb, never complaining, whining, budging or making faces at me for invading her privacy - I mean, Maybe I should have made faces at her for invading mine, but you see I was a willing accomplice, letting her share the space and even the hot idlies (which she rejected, but that's not the point anyway and I am not offended;)) That's not even the actual teaching. So, the real deal was the lesson of realization - that what we seem to know and understand becomes such an epsilon before the infinite intelligence. May be that's what the spiritual teachers mean when they say the mind is noise and silence would let the Source do its work - and the nature's intelligence is far far far more superior than that of our egocentric, measly brains.
So one day, I hope, I can sing like the birds sing - not worrying about who hears or what they think. "Execute the duty - all else is husk" - especially the noise in the head! Did you say "Ironcial?"
Now that's some solid learning. All that is left is the application of that learning.
A girl can hope! Yes sire, she can.
Pictured - the cold stare of the birdie that taught me.
