There are no guarantees, and we must try anyway. We love anyway without any promise of a specific outcome, that we will be loved back, or that there will be a tomorrow together.

We eat right, exercise regularly, sleep enough, watch our stress levels, know our family histories, and try to mediate the risks. Or we don’t. And, there are no guarantees that all will turn out as we hope or plan.

We do not plan on marriages falling apart, a child getting a terminal illness, or any of the accidents that change our family structures permanently. We also do not stop planning or imaging a future either because these unplanned events might occur.

When my first marriage fell apart, I had deep concern about how the divorce from my first husband was affecting or would affect our three young children. It felt like I had broken the thing you are not supposed to break if you are a parent. I felt like I had failed my children, and that I had dashed their hopes and dreams, and my own too.

The truth is that divorce is sometimes the healthiest option and best way for everyone to get what they need. And, it is also true that children whose parents divorce are injured and hurt by the breakup. They can also be hurt by what is happening before the divorce. It is all true. There is no good solution to complex problems, and most of us try to to the best we can under the circumstances. Sometimes it is good enough, and sometimes it isn’t.

I wanted to be honest and still give my children a sense of hopefulness even though things felt unsteady in the beginning. My oldest, Jade, was 8 at the time and his sisters, Cait (Brigid) and Summer, were 4 and 2. That first summer in our house with just the four of us plus our new dog Zeke was another kind of tangle ball. We were experimenting with what life could begin to look like, feeling the hurt, letting a lot of things go, and breaking and making new rules for our lives.

One night, Jade was out riding bikes with some of the other kids in the neighborhood. It was just after dark when he came bursting through the front door in tears. He was at his friend’s house when her dad became angry about the birds building nests in the eaves of the house. Her father knocked the nest down with a broom. Jade heard a tiny bird in the bushes chirping and crying.

I grabbed a blanket and a box. Jade, his sisters, and I walked up the street one block to his friend’s house, and listened for the chirping. We found the tiny bird in the bushes, and placed it in the box and took it home. It was a swallow, I think.

When we arrived home, I had a talk with our dog Zeke, a Labrador-Golden Retriever mix, about leaving this bird alone. Jade went upstairs. When he came back down, he had a crucifix, a rosary, a tiny statue of St. Thomas, a Buddha figure, a purple turtle totem, and a rabbits foot. He placed his sacred items around the bird box on the kitchen counter. Following their brother’s lead, the girls brought down their sacred objects to add to the circle around the bird.

I read about how to care for a bird on the internet, and it said not to over water them. I also found a local bird sanctuary who would take him in the morning. After I put my children to bed, I prayed this bird would make it through the night. I begged the bird to live.

In the morning, I woke up early before my children and went into the kitchen and opened the lid of the box. There was chirping. I was so relieved, and as soon as my children woke up we drove the bird to the sanctuary. We left that bird in the hands of a wildlife rehabilitation specialist. It felt like hope was restored and resilience was possible again, and that there were support systems in the world to help hold that hope with us. This bird was the medicine we all needed.

About a decade later, this same son of mine, my first born, was in crisis. Our family was in crisis. He almost died, and could have on several occasions over a period of a year. It was terrifying. On one of the many drives home from the hospital, I remember taking Elder Hill Road home. It is the scenic route where there were fewer lanes and cars and slower speed limit. There is a particular curve and downward drop in the road just before a vineyard. It is at this part of the road where my prayers and desperation were verbalized. Alone in the car with my tears, voice, and a slew of emotions, I made my declaration and commitment to feel it all, the fear, pain, sorrow, and grief that comes with important relationships. Tearing down whatever partitions or protective layers that may have still been in place, I welcomed in the flood of emotions. I would not turn away from what was unpleasant and uncomfortable. Making this promise was not a bargaining chip or condition of what cannot be promised. I knew that my surrender to all of it was not a trade for my son’s life. I was all in, no matter what.

During the polar vortex event of 2021, we found ourselves stuck at home for days. So, when the sun came out, we ventured outdoors in our snow gear to explore and feel sunshine on our faces. Goldfinch and Bell’s Vireo began to come to our front porch. They would hop around and not fly away. Our huskies also found a few around the property. William, Ellie, and I would sit down on the front path and watch them, try to hand feed them, and talk to them. They would come right up to us and hop into our hands, but they would not eat. We built little steps out of stones so they could hop their way up the too high steps and make it into the garden where they would be safer. It broke our hearts open to watch them. They were unable to fly, so we sat with them as they hopped around in the cold and sunshine. Eventually, the birds died. I think we put three or four in open graves made of twigs and leaves. We placed these brightly colored, motionless, and silent creatures in the snow above the creek at the back of the property.

A few weeks later after the snow had melted, the birds began to show up again near the house. I hesitated. It was hard to see them, to open my heart to their fate. Would these birds live or die here? I suppose both would likely be true, but I did not want to witness one more lifeless, beautiful bird. Slowly, I began to look again and for longer.

We have many songbirds and bird’s of prey that move through the property or live around our home. The wrens have quite a community and regular nests. They fuss and flit about when we get too near their messy nests that hold their precious babies. There is one in our garage between two booster seats where babies have been born every spring for at least the last four years. I leave water and bird seed over long weekends if we are not home. There is another on the window ledge outside one of our kitchen casement windows. I can watch from the inside as the mama and daddy bring food to line the nest. Last year, we watched the new babies hop down from the ledge to the bench, and then to the ground. The parents helped them find their way into the garden under the gate. The baby wrens learned to fly in our garden where they were safe from cats and other predators.

A month ago, a black and white hummingbird was the first bird I saw after Edmond died. It was out front flying about the St. Francis statue just outside the garden. I have been hearing the hummingbirds zooming and humming through the trees daily.

Edmond used to fill the feeders at the on the deck outside of his office window. He was religious about making sure the feeders were clean and filled in the spring and summertime. He told me one day when he came home for lunch that a hummingbird came to the office window and was fussing at him. He realized the feeder was empty. I think those birds had him trained.

Yesterday, my friend Trisha had planned to come over to my house for the morning. She is in the process of selling her house, so she had to leave the property while it was being shown to a prospective buyer. The day before, an emerald hummingbird flew into her studio. She had tried to catch it and set it free outside, but was unable to do so. She borrowed sugar from a neighbor and made a mixture for the feeder that she filled and hung inside the studio. Hummingbirds eat all day long, eating half their body weight every 10-15 minutes and can starve to death in 3-5 hours.

Trisha called to tell me she was on her way over, and that a bird friend was coming with her. She had found the little bird in the morning and put it in a box with the sugar feeder. It was not doing well, and needed food and care if it was going to live. From what my friend had gathered from some quick web searches, the likelihood of survival was about equal to that of death.

We sat in a quiet, tree-filled spot. From a little medicine dropper, we hand-fed the tiny metallic green and grey bird. We must have sat with this little bird for nearly an hour. Time was strange in the crisis of the moment. Yet, we were calm knowing our efforts were our gift that was not attached to the outcome. Being with this little bird was precious.

We watched its nearly invisible tongue peek out from its long, thin straw like beak. We could see it begin to swallow. Its little bird feet were curled up. Its eyes were at first closed, but later opened a little more. It fluffed its tiny feathers, and spread its itty bitty wings a couple of times. We were hopeful, waiting and slow in our movements. It began to change and move a little more. Before we could guess what would happen next, it flitted off to a high branch on a nearby juniper tree.

We were in awe, and stunned with hopefulness. It was a miracle that we witnessed together loving and caring for this tiny creature.

It was what we all needed, hummingbird included. Caring and allowing care, gentle offerings of nourishment drop by drop, only what was able to be received. There was no forcing, only gentle and fierce love, not matter what.

Bird Medicine