As I sat sipping my beautiful steaming cup of coffee and journaling this morning, something on the window caught my eye. I glanced up to see some bird feathers stuck to the pane, blowing in the gentle breeze. Immediately I recognized them as Robin’s. I had not heard that heart wrenching thud!, the telltale sign of a bird strike. Thankfully. I got up from the rocker to peer down below the window, and I (again with gratitude) saw that there was no robin lying, panting on the ground. I went out to peel the feathers off the window, hoping that doing so would eradicate the dismal feeling that even my unwashed windows are no deterrent to repeated strikes.
Standing on the grass outside the window, I looked closely at one of the feathers: it is so soft I can hardly feel the silk on the toughened skin of my fingertips, and it is comprised of the most minute strands of fiber. What most amazed me was its intricate coloration: the top half of the feather is tawny rust (the color of the robin’s breast) which is edged at the tip by a tiny ruffle of pure white; the latter is only visible with careful observation and the magnifying glass. There is a band of pure white just below the rust, and the after-feather (where the bottom of the feather meets the calamus, quill or hollow shaft) is a dark smoky gray.
A few days ago I sat with my dear friend and together we heard the sickening thump of a bird hitting her window. Our rush to the window revealed a tiny bird (she knew the species, but I don’t recall now who it was), seemingly panting in that post-strike way. We groaned and wondered about how to keep this from happening. A short while after returning home, she sent a text message: “Too, the little birdie flew away. Yay.” My sentiments exactly!
It is springtime and I’m thinking about windows. I offer photos of them here: looking outside from within. There are sixteen in this maybe-five-hundred-square-foot cottage, plus a skylight over the kitchen. How easily I can get distracted from (or motivated toward) the task at hand as I sit with my desk facing out two windows, toward the “triplet alders” to the west of my home. For example, just now there is a big fat yellow-billed robin who flew to the larger moss-covered rock at the base of the alders. It is exceedingly more interesting, enticing, stimulating, soulful for me to allow these “windowly” distractions than to lock myself inside myself where nothing can touch me, feed me, support me, heal me.
There is beauty when I look out those windows. There are tasks within the walls that hold the windows. And the better I can merge the two seamlessly, allowing the fluidity of distraction-turned-opportunity, the better I can embrace the fullness of myself and all beings.
All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
