Birds Unfurl The Wings Sheltering My Heart

I’ve had a lifelong connection to birds after rescuing a sparrow nestling when I was five years old

It was a scorching desert morning in mid May, a few days after my fifth birthday. I was running barefoot through the grass when I spied movement ahead and instinctively leapt into the air.

I whirled around to make sure it wasn’t a snake, then knelt on my knees. Parting the long blades of grass, I discovered a struggling baby sparrow.

Its eyes were open but very few feathers covered it’s tiny body. It looked up at me and cheeped. My heart cracked open. “You poor little bird! Where’s your mama and nest?”

I scanned overhead tree branches, not finding mom nor concerned siblings. I placed my palm next to sparrow, gently encouraging her forward with my finger.

Once nestled into my sweaty palm, I cupped her safely and carefully walked inside to show mother, the ultimate authority. She looked doubtful.

“That’s a young nestling. She might not survive and it’s going to take a lot of work to feed her before she becomes a fledgling and can fly. Can you do that?”

“She won’t die mom! I love her. I’ll do anything to help her! I’ll feed her and sleep by her side. I promise!” I was a passionate child.

Mom explained the labor involved. Food every hour or two, how to tap her beak to see if she opens her mouth and much more.

I listened avidly to every word then ran to find a shoebox for sparrow’s new nest. Padding it with my softest flannel pajama top. We placed it in a dappled sun spot near a window.

I attended her faithfully. Watching her swallow food down and hunger for more in so little time.

Sparrow imprinted on me and I became her mom. Within a week she graduated from nestling to fledgling. I stroked her new feathers and encouraged the petite stretches she did to strengthen her legs.

Stronger and stronger she became. One day she hopped out of the shoebox and teetered on the edge. A drunken fledgling, baffled by a brave new world.

I was thrilled by her first flight. Happy tears for the little survivor trickling down my cheeks.

The summer passed quickly with sparrow going inside and out as she learned how to live outdoors. She migrated in the fall and I missed her lively presence intensely. But my efforts felt rewarded she had become sturdy enough to join her flock.

The following three Springs she returned and tapped on our kitchen window to be let in. The first time I saw her, I yelled “Sparrow is back!” so loud everyone came running.

This was the beginning of my lifelong love for birds.

I had many contacts with birds in the wild on my travels. I like to think they sensed how much I appreciated them but some of these winged wonders also taught me lessons.

I was living in a city when I met up with a cantankerous crow. I have a special affection for raptors but crow was challenging at first and seemed bent on pissing me off.

I was a morning runner and she cunningly remained hidden amidst the branches of tall firs near our house. Until I set off. Let the dive bombs begin.

She’d dip her wings and swoop in, barely missing my head in bold passes and perch on a wire ahead. Repeat performance, block after block until I ran out of her territory.

She relocated to the garden for new thrills and began dropping fir cones on my head. One afternoon I reached my limit and stood up, indignantly waving my trowel and asked her what the hell she wanted.

She squawked and stared mounfully at the large birdbath I often forgot to fill with my busy life. Of course! This was her domain and she needed a bath.

I scrubbed out the stone bowl, gave it a thorough rinsing on jet spray and filled it to the brim with fresh cold water. I stepped back as she flew to the bath without hesitation. Merrily splashing away while I stood grinning like a fool.

We were in a drought and she needed relief. From this point on we were best friends. No more cones and no harassment on runs. Clueless human finally got the message.

Wherever I’ve gone, bonds are formed with feathered friends. They part the veils protecting my heart by lifting me into joy and wonder.

Birds I can trust. They follow the laws of nature. Humans often do not.

I lived in the equatorial bush in Kenya for two months. Swarms of water hungry bees buzzed into our campsite at the exact same time every dawn and dusk. They stayed for precisely half an hour then zipped off as rapidly as they came.

I was forewarned of this daily affair and not sure I could be still while they crawled on my skin in search of sweet water. First arrivals tickled me to the point of laughing.

They began sipping from the corners of my eyes and walking on my lips. Thanks to small mercies, carmine bee eating birds came right behind them, providing the perfect distraction.

Their graceful ballets and acrobatic twisting and twirling would strike envy in a human aerialist. Their colorful feathers flashing rainbows on the loose as they darted around, miraculously avoiding stingers. Zapping and crunching down a bee mid flight.

I surrendered to the bees by focusing on the bee eaters exquisite grace instead. I became grateful for the daily sessions. Best therapy ever.

Another fast adaptation was required when I visited northern Germany. My B&B bordered a nature reserve and I was eager to explore the paths on a morning run in the refuge.

I had long, thick hair and banded it into a high ponytail so my neck wouldn’t overheat. There were warning signs posted at the reserve entry. Goshawks lived in this site. They were aggressive and territorial.

I was running through the well planned trail system when I heard the ominous swish of large wings coming up fast behind me. I turned around to see the piercing glare of the largest Goshawk I had ever seen. It dove straight toward me with alarming speed, talons extended.

It swept low overhead and grazed the top of my skull with it’s talons, pulling part of my ponytail out of the band.

I dashed into the woods and released my hair as Goshawk made a sharp turn and came at me again. And again.

I was no stranger to the wild and knew this powerful raptor interpreted my speed and bobbing hair as a potential threat. She might’ve had a nearby nest.

I dashed among forest trees and through undergrowth until reaching the edge of the reserve and open sky. She tracked me the entire way.

I felt exhilarated from this risk filled event. I admired fierce Goshawk’s ability to drive off a two legged. I also changed my route.

I now fittingly live on Raven Hill Road. My land partners and I were able to name our own road. It was a unanimous vote.

We’ve been honored to host a raven couple who established a high nest in a fir fairly close to our living room deck. This site produces one National Geographic nature show after another.

Our island has a healthy population of Bald Eagles. These magnificent birds have a seven foot wingspan and can lift a large fish out of the water. One of their favorite Spring treats are eggs and fledglings.

One afternoon my husband and I heard a raucous commotion in the sky. We headed to the deck and found an aerial battle taking place.

Mom raven was guarding the nest while her mate dogged an eagle’s wings to ward off an attack. Raven cawed battle cries. Eagle screeched back. Mom croaked frantically and nestlings sent out calls of distress.

Eagle was forced out of his pursuit and flew onto the crown of a tall fir right next to where we stood.

We held our breath as raven blasted in at top speed, landing on a branch directly below eagle. He didn’t take his eyes off eagle one second as he rallied for the next attempt.

Then it came. Eagle dove swift and silent as an arrow. His wings demonstrating fluidity and speed at its best. And there shot raven right behind, catching his tail wind.

POW! Raven scored a hit on eagle’s wing, with enough strength to alter his aim. Then another and yet another rapid strike from raven on both wings. More screeching and cawing with nestlings adding to the fray.

Raven emerged the victor. Eagle gave up and flew away to the west. Our raven family survived intact!

I was so captivated by their life and death struggle I had been holding my breath and now let it out with a whoosh of relief.

Mighty eagle is a symbol for Great Spirit in Native American tribes. After my mother died we siblings felt her ashes should be dispersed in one place. I was the one who received them.

I took them to our cabin on the island where we now live full time. I placed the container in the loft and waited for the right time.

Summer vacation returned us to our land. I woke up one deep blue sky morning and heard mother’s voice clearly. “It’s time to take me home. You know where I want to be.”

And I did, without a doubt. Our small family of three put on our hiking shoes and headed out to a stunning nature preserve on the south end of our island. One of my favorite places in the world.

I carried mother’s ashes in my backpack just as she had carried me in her womb.

High cliffs plunged dramatically to the sea. Gulls and seals shared their approval of the day. We descended a precarious path to the water’s edge where a small beach had formed.

I sat down on a driftwood bench and opened the container. Listening to waves lapping the shore as my hand sifted through small fragments of her bones.

Trickling a handful of ashes into the emerald green water and watching the water turn opalescent as it took her in.

This is when I heard eagle’s call from above.

Only one was surfing the thermals overhead until eleven others came streaming from the south. Together they formed a kettle of twelve spiraling dancers.

Tears flowed freely from my expanded heart space. I raised my hands to the infinite sky exclaiming, “It’s mother and her 11 children!”

Words came tumbling out of my mouth. “Thank you ancestors. For the bones that bore my mother and for her blood flowing through the blood in my body. Thank you Great Spirit. For blessing her journey back home. So be it.”

I slowly poured every grain of her ashes into the holy water of all life.

This is the gift the bird kingdom has freely offered all my life.

Glimpses into my inner heart where the flame cannot be quenched.

All of us need the healing medicine of joy. May you find yours.