Birds are like people, too

I learn a lot from watching birds. When I was a child, I was taught to recognize the call and the flash of wing from my "Field Guide to Western Birds". The exercise taught me a new way of looking. As a result a trip through a field, forest path, or city street is rich with activity that many others miss.

I have vivid memories of bird dramas through the years. Like the morning a pack of summer birds caught an owl far from her roosting spot. They harrassed her down the street from tree to tree as if she were a hoodlum caught in the act. It was if the whole bird community conspired to squawk their disdain. First in line to harrass the poor owl were the crows, cautiously followed by the magpies. Next were the blue jays, robins, and far in the rear, the sparrows jeered.

Not too close, though. A sparrow has to be careful.

Now, closer to home, I have a chance to get to know my bird neighbours in their daily habits. The crows and the magpies, as annoying as they can be during the day with their raucus calls, are quiet while on the hunt. I've decided the endless calls in the morning are their hungry young. I suspect the crow and magpie parents do their chief hunting in the morning, quietly, snatching the young of their weaker neighbours, to feed their own.

Hunger is a hard taskmaster.

Chickadees, those tiny balls of fluff at the bottom of the food chain, never fail to inspire me. Their cheerful call can be heard through the dead of winter. They are survivors, they are flexible communicators, and they are optimists. Urban legend taught me that chickadees congregate in the winter night in the hollow of a tree for warmth, allowing their body temperature to drop near freezing, then erupting in a mass shiver. I've found out since that this may not be true. One article insists that chickadees are loners. These tiny bundles rather each find their own cranny to wedge themselves in for the night. From a bird feeder they will take away seeds to hide in their own hidden cache. For all their resourcefulness, a hard winter will take casualties. It makes me pause on a hard winter day as I gaze out my double glazed window.

I've also learned another hard fact about small birds...and bees, for that matter. The smaller you are, the higher your metabolic rate. Chickadees, hummingbirds, and bees must be on a constant search for food to keep their little engines running. As a consequence also, all three are highly territorial.

Hunger is a hard taskmaster.

So what does this all have to do with people? Well, people aren't all alike, either. Their habits and choices cannot be explained away in a short, brute list of motivations. My observations as a child that distinguished, say, mother from woman, matured as I got older, and is fine tuned even further as I watch people in place. What pushes people; what pushes me to react one way or another is not always simple. Understanding these nuances can keep me from making brute assumptions, and perhaps I can choose new ways to respond to new situations.

Random acts of blessing a curse?

To give you some background, I travel a lot through the downtown core during the day. My staff are scattered throughout several buildings in the middle of Edmonton. My day is made up of meetings in different buildings, and I scoot several blocks down Jasper Avenue to get there. When I am late I use the bus, waving my transit pass as I fly by. From practice I've found the bus faster than walking, light rail transit, or car.

So I am late and I scoot on the bus, waving my transit pass at the driver. I ask him if he drops off at 107th. He does. The bus is mostly full, only a few spare seats. I sit down beside a balding man reading his book. I haul my own book bag in my lap for courtesy sake and take out my own novel. Space Opera, delightful escapism, borrowed from the library. The bus rumbles off, smelling of sweet diesel and wet sand. The man looks up from the novel and tells me gravely, "God bless you."

Alllll right.

I look him in the eye and say, "Thank you." There is a tinge of madness in the corners. I swiftly look away and absorb myself in my own book. I am swamped with a feeling of violation, and vow to explore those feelings later. I also take sly note that he is reading a hardcover novel, not a bible. Unusual for someone so socially forward, he's wearing i-pod headphones. My stop comes, and I rush back out in to the warm winter day, full of slush and people rushing to their own purpose, office towers dropping ice and a meeting to get to.

I make a whole bundle of assumptions about that man's random act of blessing. He's likely evangelical. I understand that history. I've been there myself. He's passionate and he has a sense of mission. Though he knows nothing about me, he considered his random act to be blessing, to be an investment in the world's spiritual bank account somehow. Perhaps he hopes that I would absorb his message and take my own spirituality more seriously. I have a definite impression he does so not for his own benefit but for what he sees as a terrible lack in our society. I am in need of reforming, dashgnabit. Me and the rest of the poor, lost world.

But I'm not lost and I do have a firm sense of where I am. I am warmly comfortable with my God. And I do have a strong sense of purpose that transcends the everyday. I, too, want the world to be a better place.

But he would not know that because he did not bother to know me first. In his mind I must be no more than a caricature, a cut-out that he could pull from the book he is reading. I am not a person, I am a sounding board. I provided a a vehicle for his blessing, but he did not bother to know or care if I was primed to receive it.

Where was I in that blessing? Does the blessing fall flat if it is not recieved?

The picture I borrow from a myspace feed, http://www.oneyearbibleblog.com/

A Case of Excessive Courtesy

A reader of my blog asked me how I manage to accomplish so much. I gave her a list of reasons why I've ended up the way I am. Not all of the reasons or noble or pretty. There has to be an element of obsessiveness for me to do all that I do. I do so many things well, and I do so much, something has just got to give. My hubby would cheerfully give you a long list of my defects. Perhaps the quirkiest is my inability to keep track of simple things. I lose keys, credit cards, change purse, pens, lip balm, and mitts. Hubby says I'd lose my head if it wasn't screwed on tight.

I got caught out yesterday in a moment of absent-mindedness. The incident and the recovery is an example I think, of the Canadian habit of excessive courtesy. I have a theory, too, on why we do it.

I plan to go to the YMCA to work out after we are let out early on New Year's Eve. I've had an exciting week of physical activity, shifting files, and I am eager to keep the momentum going. I hop over from my secondary office to my primary to pick up my gym bag. The YMCA is right across the street from there. I open up the bag, and there are no gym shoes. Drat. I'd left them at home. Anyways, I go for my swim. Still burning with excess desire, I decide to finish off with twenty minutes on the recumbent cycle. I've cycled at home in my socks before. No harm, right? Did I mention I am wearing thick, day-glo orange socks?

I love thick socks. They cured me of a heel spur years ago, and I won't give them up. These socks are old and chunky, losing their elasticity. They were a poor choice this morning, as they bunched up in my shoes as I shifted files. I'd ended up taking off my shoes on the job so I wouldn't be walking on bunched-up cotton. Perhaps this old chunky pair are due for the dumpster.

Anyways, I am padding through the exercise room in my day-glo chunky old cotton socks. I reach the recumbent cycle at the end of the row, and I am pounced upon by one of the staff. "Excuse me", as he glances nervously at my feet, "Do you have gym shoes?"

I am mortified.

"I am so sorry. I thought I had them with me but I don't. Would it be all right if I went on the machine anyways?"

We jumble our apologies and our reasons together in a rush,

"Maybe this once."

"I won't forget my shoes again."

"You can't go over to the weight area."

"Of course."

"And the treadmill. I hate to think what would happen if you had an accident on the treadmill."

"I won't be going on the treadmill today."

"I'd hate to be responsible...just this once."

"I'm sorry to put you through this. I will be sure to bring my shoes from now on."

We agree I can have my twenty minutes on the cycle machine.

There was such a complex interaction of empathy and a desire to please in that short exchange. Neither of us wanted to dissapoint. He had his duty towards the safety of the members, of course. He had to confront me, as unpleasant as that might be. I wanted to avoid embarrassment and the extra chore of coming back another day through the traffic and storms. It got me to thinking how many times that week I'd heard strangers reflexively apologizing for the smallest things.

It seems to me the apology index went up as soon as our weather became brutal. Edmonton has finally been hit with cold and snow. This week also I finished "The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People" by Dr. Stephen Covey. It took me a year to finish the book because I got stuck on habit three. The third habit is to do those things you know would make the biggest impact on your life. Covey askes, pointedly, why we don't do them? Because it is easier to ignore the big things! My big thing is exercise. Surprise. Anyways, I made it past habit three and the rest of the book was a cinch.

Covey speaks of our need to build each other's Emotional Quotient. If someone's EQ is low, it doesn't matter how reasonable our request. Their reserves are depleted and they are in no frame of mind to grant requests. Covey impresses the requirement to "seek to understand" before we strive to be understood. This is habit five.

It seems to me a batch of tough weather takes a toll on us all. There's the planning of the trip and the coordination of errands. No-one wants to take the trip twice. There's the dressing and the bracing for the hit of frigid air. There's sweeping and shovelling and skidding and caution. It's like the entire community's EQ takes a dip with the thermometer.

It seems that in the midst of adversity, we make a community decision to be nice. To show extra courtesy. To be kind and polite, and if necessary, apologize where no apology is needed. Because we all know deep down that we need the boost.

Like a community of winter birds, huddling to stay warm through the dark nights, we help get through the cold together.

So that's my theory. Canadians are extra nice because we never know when we might need a boost. It's like we pad our guts with an extra reserve of warmth. By experience we know we are all in this together. The happier you are, the better off I am too.

The blogger, ACPL Kids hosts the picture above, "New Socks" by Bob Shea.

Pearl Grey

I found out a girlfriend is facing a very tough road. It's not path I would wish on anyone. For now we have each other at least, for a little comfort and commiseration. I mentioned my new theory about life, that it is meant to have dark and bright moments; that's the beauty of it. As an artist, I've learned that the brights are brighter because we have the shadows to highlight how beautiful the good bits can be.

My girlfriend laughed and reminded me that God might be listening. He might just help us get our wish. I quickly wished rather for the beauty of "pearl grey" in her life. She agreed, saying that one of her goals is to face her situation with "equanimity". What a fine word.

The beauty of monochrome brought to mind an image I saw out the greyhound window as hubby and I travelled back from Calgary. It was twilight, and the dimming light shaded the snowy fields with the same blue as the sky. I watched this deep blue form from ground to horizon, all the same, except for a faint line of shadow of trees. Beautiful. This picture is the closest that google granted me.

I am borrowing the picture from myspace.com/cynthiacv

Just today I got an excited call from my granddaughter and daughter about a sighting of an impressive grey bird that flocked in to our neighbourhood. While I was slaving away at work, they were taking a much-needed break at home. My daughter described a large flock of birds, brown, with bits of yellow and their heads tipped with red. "They have a nice call too, mom." I answered reflexively, "Cedar Waxwings. They come here for the Mountain Ash berries." There are very few birds who stay behind for the winter, and fewer still who travel in large flocks. I would say the birds are more a beautiful washed grey than a brown. They are another example of the beauty of monochrome.

http://blog.earth-touch.com/index.php/archive/tags/forest

Cedar Waxwings congregate to tough out our winters together. Chicadees, too, stay our winter in little flocks, calling out in their ever cheerful way where food might be found.

You can listen to the Cedar Waxwing's call here, and one of the Chicadee's calls here. As an aside, Chicadees have some of the most sophisticated calls in the natural world.

You might wonder why a bird would choose to stay for our winters instead of migrating south like so many others. For one thing, they have fewer predators to worry about. They also don't have to expend a great amount of energy on the trip. Instead, they focus on getting through the winter together, hunting out the best places to visit for their energy needs. It seems to me that a bird choosing to tough it out here would also by necessity be a community. And be as cheerful as it could be under the circumstances.

We need each other to cheer ourselves up, to keep going, to make it through. I had another incident today that made me wonder if our cruel weather is responsible for making Canadians so polite. I'll talk about that next.

Creepy Santa

It's tough to keep the Christmas spirit going. I forge ahead by feeding myself with sights, sounds and smells. This year I made a low-fat version of Christmas cake. All right, it's still heavy and rich - there's no escaping the candied fruits and nuts - but what I really wanted was my house filled with rich, warm smells. I also splurged on a real tree this year. Also for the smells. A fifteen dollar tree from Superstore, just a tad lopsided. He sits on one of my side tables, decked out in three seasons of silver globes, picked up at after-season sales.

A sight I could have done without is robot Santa at Wal-mart.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjRt3dC5rVo

He sent me automatic greetings every few seconds, as I stood at the door, bundled up with my purchases, waiting for hubby to pick me up. Anyways, there's this robot santa standing above the seasonal racks. On schedule, he makes some spastic moves and mumbles something Christmas-ey. Thankfully, he is drowned out by the buzz and clatter of the shoppers. But we had those few creepy moments together as I waited for my ride.

Whatever was Walmart thinking?

I watched a documentary on Mall Santas last night, very well done. Here's a fine review. The director, Mike Sheerin , gives us to peek in to the lives of three Mall Santas who take their job very seriously. There's an exchange of kindness; all three men get something special from the lives they touch. A surprising flip side is the barrenness of their personal lives. When Christmas is all over, Santa is forgotten. I'm of a mind to pass on my thanks to these heroes of the human touch....on Boxing Day.

Meeting Santa is all about humanness and warmth. A benevolent stranger cares about me and wants to know how I am doing, what I most wish for. You can't get that touch from a machine. I'm all for technology when it helps. Sure, automate the check-out experience. I'd be happy to do that chore myself. But Santa can't be automated. He's a living, breathing symbol of care.

My feeding station is not just for the birds

I have a new visitor to our bird-feeder. In other circumstances, I might even think he is cute and cuddly. He has a thick coat, brindle-striped in greys and browns. And he's made a beeline path in the snow to a little nest right under the bird-feeder. His only redeeming quality is that he scoots when I say scat. Guilty conscience, I would say.

Our famous Canadian cold is finally scheduled to arrive, so made sure the feeder is full.

I wonder if a few strategically placed moth-balls might convince him to nest somewhere else. Where does one buy moth-balls these days?

Candor and Veritas

Candor and Veritas, two descriptive words for Mercator, the founder of modern maps. I just finished his biography, "Mercator: The Man Who Mapped the Planet" by Nicholas Crane. On page 225, these two descriptive words are used to describe this very, very productive man, this man who also cared deeply about his work. Any natural analyst would understand his obsessive pursuit of perfection and harmony.

Wikipedia describes candor this way... "is a virtue that is the quality of being open and honest in expression. i.e., frankness. For example, 'He is a man of refreshing candor.' The word originated from the late Middle English (in the Latin sense): from Latin candor 'whiteness'".

The image I get is of a fresh fall of snow, which suddenly brightens our drear winter. It is crisp, clean, and refreshing.

From wiki also, a little bit about veritas. "In Roman mythology, Veritas (meaning truth) was the goddess of truth, a daughter of Saturn and the mother of Virtue. It was believed that she hid in the bottom of a holy well because she was so elusive. Her image is shown as a young virgin dressed in white.[1] Veritas is also the name given to the Roman virtue of truthfulness, which was considered one of the main virtues any good Roman should have possessed".

Truth's elusiveness reminds me of one of my favorite quotes from Twain:

We are always hearing of people who are around seeking after the Truth. I have never seen a (permanent) specimen. I think he has never lived. But I have seen several entirely sincere people who thought they were (permanent) Seekers after the Truth. They sought diligently, persistently, carefully, cautiously, profoundly, with perfect honesty and nicely adjusted judgment- until they believed that without doubt or question they had found the Truth. That was the end of the search. The man spent the rest of his hunting up shingles wherewith to protect his Truth from the weather.- "What is Man?"

I think an honest seeking after truth demands that the search never stop. Always, always challenge my base assumptions. Never cave to fear or pride that I might be wrong.

I found this picture at foundinthefells.com http://www.foundinthefells.com/monthly/FoundJan.htm