It has been a very long time coming, but it is good to finally begin writing a blog post again. Surely, most readers of this blog have moved on after being starved of updates for months on end. If you, dear reader (old or new), find your way to Mirkwood, allow me at least to provide an original — and completely true — excuse.
Much has happened in the eight months since the last post was written. I said goodbye to my beloved Cambridge, and moved back to California. P flew to Cambridge to help me pack, and we crossed the country by train, marveling at the changing landscape. Soon after reaching San Francisco, we launched into the insanity of looking for — and moving into — a different apartment. And then, before we had begun to ease into domesticity, P and I both started new jobs in a hectic Bay Area summer. Visits from the parents followed, and work-related travel and a couple of tooth surgeries for me and a bicycle accident for P, so that there was little energy left to read or to blog. There are some captivating books waiting to be read at home, but this post is not about my reading. It is about our shared experience of installing and maintaining a bird feeder.
A couple of years earlier, P had purchased a lovely bird feeder, made of cedar wood and shaped like a gazebo. She had also bought some birdseed that was especially suited to songbirds. When I visited California, we would talk of hanging it up and attracting birds. However, when you visit each other only for short periods, and several months of yearning, planning and conversation has to be compressed into a weekend reunion, other things must take precedence over the installation of bird feeders. So, P’s feeder sat empty on her patio, gathering dust, raindrops and fall leaves, a forlorn reminder of the way we had lived for so long, three-thousand miles apart. When we finally moved in together, I guiltily moved the feeder from the old apartment to the new one and there, as a mute witness to our suddenly busy life together, it again sat unused beside our plants for a long time. It would take a little junco to change all that.
On one of our rare quiet weekends this year, we were standing inside the house, looking out together, when an Oregon junco flew onto the patio and started pecking it’s way around the plants. It went this way and that, until, after a few random-seeming darts, it found the dusty feeder and began to investigate. Owing either to the experience of past feeders, or to a mysterious avian instinct, the bird gave the gazebo a thorough once-over, pecking occasionally but, of course, finding no birdseed in answer. This melted P’s heart and a decision was made then and there: The feeder had to go up and fulfill its intended purpose. Plans were hatched; locations were scouted; the feeder was washed and dried; birdseed was poured, and a custom wire was cut and crimped in the span of a single afternoon. We settled on a spot in the patio that was close to trees, a deciduous tree that looks like a paper birch and two redwoods, which would provide songbirds with a hideout to which they could hastily return in order to stay safe from predators. We anticipated (rightly, as it turned out), that the birds would make a mess below the feeder, so a tarp was placed underneath to collect stray seed and bird droppings. Then we waited.
Nobody came on the first day. Or the second. On the third day, some chickadees on the birch tree discovered the hanging feeder, did some acrobatics on the wires and helped themselves to a few seeds. True to their gregarious nature, they bustled about making tiny, frequent calls, drawing the attention of house finches and juncos. Tentatively first, then with some regularity, until a week later, the birds were coming in droves. And in the midst of a damp, cold, rainy season the like of which California has not seen in a long time, they still keep coming. Our casual observations of birds frolicking at a feeder provide instant amazement and present opportunities to learn about avian life. Over time, however, the two of us have come to realize that there is also something more: As the birds come and go with the seasons, they quietly remind us that we are, finally, experiencing a continuum in time. Together. It took us a while.
[I intend to write more about the feeder, alternating between posts about the species of birds that grace it, and posts about the complications that arise from having a feeder in an apartment dwelling. This may turn out to be interesting.]