I collect birds as I collect memories. I attach them to events, mark the chapters of my life with a bird for each. I notice them in small moments. The women who have come before me in my family have passed this on to me. I have birds for work, birds for death, birds for love, and many birds for home.
I called my mom a few days ago and she said she had just been thinking of me because the sandhill cranes were flying over our home in Alaska on their migration south. They travel from their breeding grounds in the Arctic in flocks of thousands. They form long, disjointed V’s and strings that sometimes take 10 minutes to pass, filling the sky with their strange, garbled, croaking calls. My mom held up the phone so I could hear their calls faintly on the other side. I heard their partial notes, only select frequencies carried to me in BC, where they would eventually pass through. Over the phone they told me that fall was coming, creeping down from the northern latitudes, following on their wings.
I have seen the cranes here in BC as well, flocking in hundreds, courting each other in pairs with strange ritual dances on the grasslands. They are otherworldly and prehistoric, like odd dinosaurs on stilts.
My mother’s sister lives in a small house surrounded by hummingbirds. Feeders line the windows and hang from eves, and there is a constant carousel of territorial hummingbirds whirling about. Other feeders offer suet and dishes of seeds to other species, and three parakeets live a cozy domestic life indoors there.
My late aunt loved corvids, particularly ravens. She used to feed the crows in the backyard of her little home in Seattle. They knew her face and would crowd the edges of the small yard when she came out, eagerly waiting for their treats. I took some things of hers from her home when she died, including a painting of ravens in a winter bare cottonwood tree. My sister now has a large raven tattoo in her honor.
We pass on these traits. The things that we notice and care for become the marks we leave on others. Our personalities blend into those closest to us. The way my hands look just like my mother’s as I get older. How I gasp when I’m surprised and startled sounds just like my grandmother. My laugh is my oldest sister’s. The way I love animals, especially birds, like my mother and her sisters.
I do my best to feel the beauty, wherever it catches my eye. Little details like birds that sprinkle magic into the mundane. They mark seasons and events, fleeting symbols of moments, of people. Small and fragile memories that make up our lives. There is profound beauty in these little things, in the details, in the liminal spaces, if we give ourselves time to see it. If we watch the migrating cranes and tell our loved ones we thought of them. If we notice the spotted towhee digging through tree bark searching for insects and point it out to our lover as we pass.
The small details become our lives, build our connections, much more than the big choices do. The little moments shared, or watched in wonder alone, define us more than our job titles. Our ability to witness and hold beauty, in whatever small form it may be, determines the quality of our lives. The birds I have noticed along the way are my signposts, my navigation buoys. They show me where I have dropped anchor, pulled a moment from the dark waters, and left a piece of my heart in that time in place.
And in the fall, they fly back to me from afar. Their harsh calls remind me they are never too far away to return.
Beautiful as the birds! 🦢
This is beautiful! Thank you.