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During the long months of the pandemic, I have been diligent about getting out for walks in my suburban neighborhood.
Periodically, I stop at the house of a friend who is caring for her ailing husband at home.
After ringing the doorbell, I retreat to the walkway and stand about eight feet from my friend’s front door, so I am a safe distance away.
She invariably opens her door with a broad smile and lets me know if she has a moment to step outside. If she can, we chat briefly; I ask about her husband and how she and he are doing, and I try to say something cheerful.
She has a terrific sense of humor and a ready laugh, and I always feel better after I have talked to her—even though my ostensible mission in stopping is to brighten her day with a moment of cheer.
I live alone, and I am past 50 (and then some), but I am in excellent health. So it never occurred to me that anyone should feel obliged to personally check on me and my welfare, even in the midst of a pandemic.
One morning in late December, however, I was sitting at my desk in my home office when I heard a cheerful sound.
I looked out my window to see a small bird singing a joyful song while perched on the wooden post at the corner of my next-door neighbor’s deck, less than two feet from my own townhouse deck.
The bird stayed for more than a minute—an eternity in bird time—before flying off through the woods behind my house. I had just enough time to snap a photo before its departure.
Since I moved to my neighborhood in 2016, I have become fascinated by the birds in the area.
With the help of several bird books I inherited from my mother—who was also captivated by birds—and a wonderful online bird guide run by Cornell University, I have been able to identify many of these feathered visitors.
I have seen a number of species, including robins, cardinals, blue jays, woodpeckers, mourning doves, bluebirds, and a stately red-tailed hawk.
Most of those birds were occasional visitors, however—here one day and, after that, never to be seen again.
To my surprise, the bird I saw on my neighbor’s deck in December began making periodic return trips to the same spot, usually in mid-morning. After he arrived, he always offered an uplifting musical performance.
My mother’s bird books and the Cornell website helped me identify this bird as a Carolina Wren.
The Cornell website describes this species of bird as “shy,” which did not seem the proper adjective for my friendly visitor. But other descriptions from the site did fit, including its love of singing. (Apparently, only male Carolina Wrens sing.)
One of my mother’s bird books called the Carolina Wren a “charmer.” After observing this wren for several days, I happily agreed with this assessment.
One day, as I looked out the sliding door to my deck, I saw the wren on his perch next door looking in one direction for several seconds. Then he executed a hop and a quarter turn to his right, and he looked in that direction for a few seconds.
He hopped back and forth in this manner five or six times, always waiting a few seconds before changing direction. Even though I knew it defied logic, I could not help but think he was performing this buoyant, rhythmic dance for my benefit.
For several weeks, through the coldest part of the winter, the wren and I established something of a pattern.
If I heard him singing when I was in my home office upstairs, I would look out my window to make sure he was there. Then I would race downstairs so I could see him—and perhaps take more photos.
I began to look forward to his visits and wonder about his well-being when he did not appear. A few days ago, I had a wild idea: Could it be that this tiny bird was actually checking on me?
After all, from his perspective, I might appear to be a creature trapped inside a structure, with no access to the glorious outside world that he inhabits. Who else would be more in need of a song—or be a better captive audience—than I?
Rationally, I know this thought is absurd. I am ascribing intention to a wild animal, when its repeated “visits” were quite likely a mere coincidence.
Nevertheless, I am happy to admit that, whether the bird meant to or not, his periodic appearances, along with his beautiful, liquid song and his saucy antics, brightened my mornings.
I have not seen him recently, and I realize I may not see him again. Wild animals have their own ways, which humans cannot fathom.
His absence would sadden me, but I am profoundly grateful to him. He helped sustain me for the past eight weeks—through the ongoing pandemic; continuing national political turmoil; and a hard, snowy winter.
He reminded me, not only of the solace that nature can provide, but also of the value of connecting with another living creature.
The lessons he taught me might be summarized this way: Be cheerful. Sing joyfully and often. And keep checking in with your friends and family, so they don't feel isolated and alone.
Even when the winter and the pandemic finally end, these seem like excellent lessons to remember and follow.
Copyright © 2021 by Susan Hooper
