On a sunny September weekend I held a tiny bird in my hand. Months later I’m still thinking about it.
In my new role as the Director at Crieff Hills Retreat Center I get to do all kind of fun new things, but my first ever bird banding event was the best so far.
Visitors gathered out in the back field by one of the old barns (left over from the days when the farm had cows and sheep) where we found a pot of coffee, an enormous plate of oatmeal cookies and certified bird bander Brian Pomfret. He is an experienced biologist with a remarkably quick wit. After a few words to welcome and gather us together, he said, “Follow me!” and we headed out to the forested trails.
It was a sunny walk with great company. I met a couple new to Canada who saw our ad in the paper and wanted to learn more about our flora and fauna. There were some girlfriends who were staying at Crieff for the weekend and came to see what was going on while their friends slept late. A few of us were there by ourselves. Everyone was friendly and the day felt festive.
We didn’t get very far before Brian stopped and pointed to the nets he had strung up in an open clearing. Sure enough there was a bird caught up in it: still, safe, waiting. He took out a small cotton sack and gently put the bird in it before tying it up. We repeated this process a number of times until we had almost a dozen birds.
Back in the picnic shelter, Brian (with help from his children) carefully took out each bird, weighed and measured it, and put a tiny anklet around one foot. Everything was recorded, he explained, so the migratory patterns could be tracked all through the Americas.
Once Brian was finished with each bird—blue jays, chickadees, ‘oven birds’ and the like—they needed to be released. Were there any volunteers to help? he asked. Yes! When it was my turn, Brian showed me how to hold the little bird so that it wouldn’t struggle. He slowly placed it in my hand.
A bird! I was holding a bird in my hand! The kind of bird I watch out the window every day, the kind that flies overhead and flits through the trees when I’m out for a walk! In my hand! I could feel its heart beating, tiny and fast. Its shiny eyes looked up at me. Its feathers were soft. It was completely calm.
I said, “Hi, bird!” (the most profound thing I could think of at the time) and I promised to let it go soon. The bird was very patient while I drank in the moment. I could have held it forever.
Finally I opened my hand and in a flash the little bird was gone. It flew back to the familiar trees where it is most at home and I waved goodbye.
Months later, I am still feeling the effects of that moment. Birds now are not just sparrows on the lawn or geese honking overhead. They are living, breathing creatures. They are precious and fragile, and they share the earth and sky with me. Each has its own lungs, its own pulse, its own needs, its own life. Just like me.
I wonder how different the world would be if everyone could hold a bird in their hand, feel its heart beat and look into its eyes. How different would our conversations be about extinction, or climate change, or pollution if we recognized how life pulses through every creature great and small?
I held a bird in my hand and it made a difference to me.
(If you’d like to join us at Crieff for the spring and fall bird banding events each year, keep an eye on the website. Details will be posted there as soon as they are available.)
At first, we just sort of talked about imaginary scenarios where we sold everything and moved to PEI, our mid-life version of running away with the circus. But then we watched Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things, on Netflix. We discovered Joshua Becker and started following his “becoming minimalist” page on Facebook. I read Marie Kondo’s book, “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” We had some important conversations about money, jobs, and success.
Quite accidentally (Providence!) we bought low and sold high, which meant that we could pay off the mortgage and all of our outstanding debt, with a leftovers to put in the bank. We looked at our monthly income and chose to move into a more modest neighbourhood where we could easily afford the rent.
I know that some people would say we have taken a step down the ladder of success because we own less now. The world is always telling us that more is better. But we know that we have taken a huge leap into freedom because we have less to insure, less to clean, less to worry about. We use less energy to heat and cool our home. We spend less money on interest payments, less time mowing the lawn and are less worried about our grocery bill.
George Stephen Cantlie was a father who left his family behind to go and fight for his country. And, like so many soldiers who left their families, he did his best to stay connected even though he was miles away. “Everyday, he would pick a flower, no matter what it was, put it in an envelope and send it to his baby daughter…”
It amazes me that such an intimate family collection of letters and pressed flowers has survived and made its way into the 
I left thinking about ditches filled with wildflowers while tanks rolled by. I thought about how my eyes often notice blooms along the sidewalk, and about how sometimes P. stops to pick a dandelion because he knows I like them. I thought about how, if he’d been born in a different time, my husband might have been the one slipping daisies into his letters home to us.
A morning walk is a luxury for Minnie. Most days, In the rush to get out the door, she’s lucky to get into the backyard for a few minutes. So I shouldn’t have been surprised at the spring in her step as we walked toward the park.
We made our way along the path, leaving behind a strange maze of footprints, with all the zig zagging and dancing around.
But this the quiet of Advent as it transforms into Christmas, isn’t it? Darkness gives way to light, and longing makes way for laughter. When we listen for it, the mystery will sweep us up and carry us along its beautiful, snowy paths. Smiles make more sense when I look at it that way.
As we made our way along paths and bridges I started to think about all the people who have prepared the way for me. Sure, there is sand on icy sidewalks. But I also thought of those who pushed for the ordination of women fifty years ago. Composers who wrote music that makes my heart sing. Ministers in the 1960’s who created a summer camp where I would discover beauty and spiritual connection. My mom who made sure I went to university. A grandfather who planted the purple iris I now grow in my garden. Grandmothers who refined recipes that have become family treasures. So many people made pathways for me to travel.
Just look at the trail you’re on. Think of all the lawmakers, advocates, poets and parents who made a path for you. Think of the teachers and preachers, builders and boosters who cleared your way. Your journey has been made possible by countless men and women, some of them generations before you were even born.
As I write, two of my children are outside clearing the sidewalk after a day of freezing rain. They put on their boots, grabbed the shovels and got to work. They found the ice melter and will soon sprinkle handfuls all over the sidewalk. They are preparing the way for people we might never meet, and yet I am certain that some of them are already on their way to great things.
This year, I’m trying to learn a little from Lucy. Of course wearing a long white robe is impractical for the busy season of Advent (especially if you are the parent of young children or take public transit). And balancing real, lit candles on your head sounds like a fast track to the emergency room (and the hair salon). So I have another idea.
So how about we borrow a little of Lucy’s wisdom and creativity this season? We could use our head to figure out what we don’t need to carry and free up our hands for what matters most.
The neighbours sound friendly but they must also be fun and thoughtful. This week, one family is beginning a monthly “Sunday Soup and Saunter.” People are invited to walk local trails together following a 9 km route or meet up halfway and only walk 4 km. Later in the afternoon they all gather for soup, bread and conversation. How lovely!
This is a beautiful way to walk in the woods. It’s also a lovely way to walk through the season of Advent. Instead of rushing around, frantically buying gifts at the mall and hurrying to get to Christmas Day, why not slow everything down to a saunter? Stop at ‘good enough’ instead of insisting on perfection. Give up the traditions that have stopped being fun or meaningful. Be at peace with fewer decorations or cookies or gifts.
I invite you to think about how you might make changes in your life, your routine, or your household so that you, too, can slow down to a saunter. There are so many gifts ready and waiting for those who decide not to hurry. May you find them as you savour the journey through the Advent season.
Last August, my beloved and I had almost two weeks together while our four children were at camp, so we hopped in our van and headed for the East Coast. We had only one thing planned and only one experience in our budget: an overnight at chef Michael Smith’s inn.
We arrived in the late afternoon but it was dinnertime when the fun really started. Oyster Hour, as they call it, invited us to wander all over the property and delight in the extensive perennial beds, the herb gardens (in wooden boxes just like mine!), and even to enter the kitchen, where Michael Smith himself gave me a quick lesson on how to shuck an oyster.
The meal lasted for hours and it was not an early bedtime, but I was glad to be awake at 6am the next morning. I quietly made my way out past the herb garden, past the three happy pigs, past the tall compost heap and sunflower patch, all the way to the back fields where the inn’s vegetables are grown. Golden sunshine had just come begun to appear when I came across farmers Jeff, Carey and their daughter Olivia. They shared friendly greetings. I enthused about the farm.
Breakfast–a serene meal with the best sticky buns I have ever eaten–plus another brief stroll to admire flowerbeds and chat with the gardener–and we were on our way again. But not without the feeling that we had been given a special gift.
Sure, Michael Smith runs a business. What I love, however, is that he is also opening a door for people who may never enter a traditional sanctuary. Here is a sacred space where people can be awed by goodness and graced with a multitude of gifts. Surely many are inspired to treat the earth with greater care and regard their neighbours as essential.
Yes, I know it’s raining. Still, spring is the best. From where I’m sitting I can see the beautiful white blossoms on my neighbour’s trees and the buds of my backyard lilac bush. Everything is lush and green–even my groceries!
Fiddleheads are the young, curled leaves of ostrich ferns that presumably get their name because they look like the scroll end of a fiddle (you can see them in this picture from the MEO website). They can only be harvested in the spring in Ontario, and I remember having them as a child at my grandmother’s house. If you manage to find some–they are always in short supply and the season goes by in a flash–wash them gently and well, being careful to get all the bits of sand out from the leaves tucked up in a tiny spiral. They taste a little like spinach and I think they are best when simply sauteed in a little butter. Yum!
There is one more important reason why I am still getting a box of fresh produce from Mama Earth every month: it is an opportunity to be mindful of each season. In the spring, it’s fiddleheads and wild leeks. In the summer it’s berries and tomatoes. Fall and winter bring colourful root vegetables and sprouts that grow indoors. With each delivery I am aware of the rhythm of the earth. It reminds me to respectfully live within its limits.
bloomingreverend 