shapeshifting animals
the peculiar choreography of loving and dying
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
The big Oak who eyes me from bed went from bare-bones to bells and whistles seemingly overnight. One minute she was stocky and immovable, now her millileaves shimmer and flirt with every passing breeze. The explosive nature of the great green unfurling mirrors the slow-motion firework of adoration which launches from my chest at the sight of the little Birds to whom I am servant. Recently, we changed the brand of mealworms that we feed the Birds at home. It took Mr and Mrs Edward Hopper—our garden Crows—three days to forgive us. I often find that I’m trying, perhaps too hard, to be liked by Crows. Whenever I’m cleaning one of the Crows bays at the rescue centre I carefully consider which stones they’d most like in their water, what colour wooly hat they’d most enjoy on their nest. I do this with all the Birds, obviously, but especially so the Crows. We had a juvenile Crow last year, George, who stole and hopped off with a paintbrush, and I stupidly made him give it back. I don’t think he ever forgave me. It was awful. I’d see him side-eye me and even though he tolerated being fed by me he’d barely flutter his wings as it happened. I don’t have a first-born, but if I did I’d have gladly swapped it for George’s forgiveness.
We’ve just had our annual end-of-life doula gathering, and I arrived feeling rather self-conscious because I’d come straight from the rescue centre and I smelled like Crow; earthy, vinegary, feral. It’s a difficult smell to cover. Last week I tried to conceal it with a few drops of frankincense essential oil, but the stopper had split and the contents spilled all over me—so instead of smelling like Crows I smelled like a Catholic Church. Thankfully, death doulas lean toward unflappability, so my corvid aroma was met with nothing but warmth. A dear friend and I had planned to hold a Death meditation1 on the Saturday morning, complete with a beautiful wicker coffin2 which had been delivered earlier in the week, in case anyone was in the mood to deepen the experience. I had spent weeks looking forward to this. I appreciate that it might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but practicing a Death meditation inside a coffin is literally a dream come true for me. On the Friday evening, however, following a long and arduous day, there came a knock on the door—and no one knocks on my door of an evening unless they have found a Bird.