I keep trying to write positive things these days. Needless to say, I’m finding it difficult. I’m not sure if it’s advancing age, personal circumstances or the tumultuous times we live in but too often I feel as if I’ve lost my underlying optimism and sense of humor; both of which have always been cornerstones of the work I do. I was looking at this recently, written in 2022, post pandemic. It gives me hope that the positive scribbles will still come.

*

There it was, out of nowhere.
It was late afternoon, and I was on our lower terrace, doing some sweeping up of summer leaves and I saw something lying on the beige stone walk. I went to pick it up – and stopped. It was moving ever so slightly. I looked closer and I realized that it was a baby bird. A hummingbird. We have a lot of them around our home. They buzz around the trees and flowers, sometimes moving too fast for the eyes to follow. My son puts up a feeder for them, filled with sugared water. This one was obviously hurt. It tried to spread its tiny wings but couldn’t. It tried to move and couldn’t do that either. What had happened? Had it collided with something, been attacked by something? What to do… sweep it up with the leaves and toss it in the trash bin? There was no way it was going to live. But no, that didn’t seem right. There was only one thing to do, and I did it. I called out to the captain of the house – my wife.

A hiker, a gardener, a disciple of nature, she immediately hurried downstairs, got down on her hands and knees and looked at the bird. “Aw, poor little guy…” she murmured. Amazing. Somehow she already knew it was a male. Finding a large, green leaf, she gently shifted the “little guy” onto it and took it back upstairs. I shrugged and went back to my sweeping.

When I came up the steps ten minutes later, the wife was sitting at the outdoor table, the little bird in one hand and an eye dropper in the other. She was, of course, attempting to feed it – yes, sugar water. “Really?” I asked. “It’s hungry?” Still barely moving, it sure didn’t seem hungry.

“They need to eat every fifteen minutes,” said the wife.

No wonder they’re always buzzing around, I thought. “Do you think it’s even going to live?” I asked. I was skeptical.

“I’m not sure,” said the wife, her voice implying it certainly would if she had anything to say about it. And that’s when it hit me. What I was seeing. A tiny bird, not much more than five weeks old, resting quietly in the palm of my wife’s hand. Was the baby beak opening and closing near the tip of the eye dropper now? Was it feeding? Yes, it seemed to be. And were its eyes open? I couldn’t remember now if they’d been fully closed. The wife looked enraptured. I certainly was. Two entities nurturing one another, one giving food and protection, and one giving gratitude. Both sharing a spirit. I quietly watched for a while before going into the house.

When I came out a short time later, the bird had been transferred to a small, flat, open box. The wife had put leaves into the box, the better, she said, for the bird to feel at home and it was moving now, trying to stand, fluttering its tiny wings. The evening around us was filled with bird song and the wife was looking off into the surrounding trees. “I wonder if its mother is watching,” she said.

“Would it be?”

“Hummingbird mothers are the best moms in the bird world. Male hummingbirds don’t do anything, the mothers do it all by themselves.”

“Thankfully you’re not talking about me.”

“Oh, no, never.” Which elicited a small smile. From both of us.

Still, feeling a need to prove myself, I picked some blossoms off a nearby flower planting and dropped them in the box next to the baby bird. “Nice,” said the wife. And then, reaching for the eye dropper, “I think you’ll be making dinner tonight.”

I did. At least I got something started.

Our son came home and went to sit out at the table with his mother, as mesmerized as she was by the little bird. Our son is interested in hawks and falconry and I’m not sure he was prepared to be quite so enchanted by the smallest member of the bird kingdom. I came out and set the table around them. Knives, spoons, forks, and napkins – no eyedroppers.

“He’s trying to fly but he can’t,” said the son. “We’re hoping it’s Mom will come and help him.”

“Your mom would if it was you.”

“I know.”

“Would its mother be able to carry it?” I asked. Somehow that didn’t seem likely to me.

“I don’t think so,” said the wife, “but maybe just by being here she could give him give it the strength to fly. But she won’t come close if we’re here.”

“We should go in then,” said the son.

Nodding, the wife picked up the small, flat box and rising from the table, placed it carefully on the terrace wall between some potted plants. The little bird fluttered softly but didn’t make a sound. “You’re going to be fine, little guy,” said the wife. We all went in.

When I came out a short time later to move the utensils back in, the little bird was gone. “He’s not here!” I called and my wife and son quickly came out to join me. “Maybe it fell,” I said, and we all hurried down the steps and outside the terrace wall to look through the vegetation. No bird.

“Its mother must have come,” said my son.

“Or a crow did,” I said, ever the optimist.

“No,” said the wife, again looking at the surrounding trees. “It flew away on its own. It’s watching us now. He knows he’s safe here. He knows this is home.”

How could you doubt it wasn’t true?

Early the next morning I went out onto the terrace. A cloud-streaked blue sky, the ocean in the distance. And just like the previous evening, the air was filled with birdsong. Birds everywhere, all ecstatically singing. And as I listened, perhaps for the very first time, really listened, I was suddenly certain of something. The baby hummingbird was singing with them.

– 2022