bone, feather, and wing

just as Death and the sun, a life-giving thing

The deeply complex Sparkle, and her perfect feet

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Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.

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A few weeks back I went down to one of the big, outdoor aviaries in the lower lands to feed the Crows. A couple of them cawed enthusiastically as I approached. Upon entering, one of them flew directly at me, landing chaotically on my shoulder, flapping his wings and loudly yelling into my ear. I quickly realised that this was the new Crow, named Russel, who had come to the rescue centre after being raised by humans and who did not yet recognise himself as fully Crow. I did my best to go about my duties as Russel wiped his face and beak over my neck and hair, and the others looked on disapprovingly.

I was amazed by the weight and heftiness of Russel’s powerful claws, particularly after becoming so accustomed to the feeling of Sparkle’s barely there little Goldfinch feet. Sparkle has now left me, and is currently spending a few days with some other juvenile Goldfinches, alongside whom she will be released back into the fierce and loving embrace of the wild.

This culminating part of her unorthodox childhood has demanded something of me that has been most challenging to give. Truly loving anything seems to require that we hold it in a way which offers both the support and the space needed for its natural unfurling. And that, when life—or Death—asks us to relinquish our grip entirely, we do so as graciously as we are able, even in the face of the formidable drive to hold on.

And still, I have found myself awash with resistance against the entirely natural, beautiful, and utterly unstoppable flow of life. The very force that allowed me the breathtaking privilege of watching the ineffable and unnamable directionality of the universe express itself through her as her tiny body grew—a seemingly effortless convergence of matter, knitting together bone, feather, and wing. The offering of a Bird into a space where there was none before; if there is a holier act, I am not sure I could bear to witness it.

My ear has now become so attuned to the various sounds of the Goldfinch that I swear I could identify one from a mile away. During the first 24 hours following Sparkle’s departure, the five-note ascension of a distant airborne Goldfinch was enough to make me crumple, crushed beneath the weight of her 14-gram absence.

I can only hope, as my love was an abiding presence while her perfect form was knitted together, that my love has in some way been woven into her being—and that, ultimately, that counts for something. There are still days when I swear I can feel flickers of my own mother’s love for me, some 35 years after she died. Perhaps the true purposes of Death, love and time aren’t meant to be understood by us mortals.

The relinquishment of this tiny Bird, whomI came to love in a way which I doubt I’ll ever successfully articulate, has brought into sharp focus the fact that letting go is indeed a skill worth honing. There is much that I need to surrender, from the insane but persistent belief that everyone else finds being human easier than I do, to the iron grip I have around everything which I dearly love. At some point, it must all be let go of; from my misguided beliefs, to the trees, to David, to life itself.

Death is woven into life in the same way that love is woven into us, across space and time, and above any real understanding. The flow of life continually moves towards Death just as it does the sun, perhaps because it recognises it, too, as a life-giving thing. Death is not the opposite of life, it is the culmination of it.

I’ve thought an awful lot about Russell and what his journey of self-discovery will involve, as he comes to better understand his Crow-hood. I wonder whether it’ll be a gradual dawning, or if he’ll experience a moment of sudden realisation—and whether that moment might be followed by a flood of relief that he is not, after all, merely human. I feel slightly envious at the thought. Then again, perhaps that’s what Death is? Perhaps the experience offers us a realisation of our own where, lo and behold, we are revealed to be much more than we ever thought ourselves to be.

From my desk I am witness to a near constant parade of Blue Tits flitting from bush to feeders and back again. David lovingly calls them The Pirañas, for the way in which a group of them will descend on the bird feeder and in one collective inhale strip the thing bare. They are quick, and bold and industrious; though one or two always prefer to sit on my office windowsill and quietly eat the seeds I leave for them there.

Just as anyone who has ever shared a friendship with an animal, I have known for a long time that every Bird has its own distinct personality—but it wasn’t until Sparkle that I realised just how individual and how deeply complex each of those personalities really is. The many facets of her truly beguiling personality would play out throughout the day, and were always growing in number. Earlier in the week she told me off for the first time, giving me three distinct warning pecks when she felt I wasn’t respecting her boundaries. I don’t think I’ve ever felt pride like it.

One of the many parting gifts that Sparkle gave me is a clearer vision of the depth of intelligence, complexity and sacrality of the natural world of which she is a part. It is something I will never unsee, and I suspect it might influence the way that the universe ultimately chooses to express itself through me.

Yet again, as predicted, I am left heartbroken. Though, if we truly pay attention to life, heartbreak is inevitable—perhaps it, just as Death and the sun, is really a life-giving thing.

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Yours in aimless flight…

Friends, two things. Firstly, it is likely that as this post makes its way into the world, Sparkle will also be making her way into the world alongside her little gang. If you feel inclined to send good wishes for her one wild and precious life, I would be most grateful.

Secondly, my friend

Kimberly Warner

has helped guide an extremely important book into the world. Dylan Shanahan is a man who has met and befriended his mortality in a way that very few are willing or able. The wisdom he shares is profound, beyond words. I cannot encourage you strongly enough to read him.

The transcendent legacy of a young man's terminal diagnosis