Conversation with a Mountain Chickadee
by
Suzanne Duarte
 |
Although most of the small birds cleared out with
the cold weather, a few species remained that wintered at 8,000 feet: mountain chickadees, nuthatches,
woodpeckers, Clark's nutcrackers, Stellar's jays, magpies and ravens. I hung out suet in addition to
sunflower seeds to help the small birds survive the cold.
One day in early October when I was sitting at my desk, I
was startled by a loud "bonk" on the window to my right. Birds often collided with this window,
which apparently reflected a lot of sky as the sun desceded towards the horizon. Sometimes I heard birds hit it two or three times a week. Usually they glanced off of the window
and flew on. A couple of times
during the summer hummingbirds knocked themselves to the ground by hitting it
at their reckless high speed. When
I rushed out to one and began to touch it to see if it was still alive, it
emitted a started "Cheep!" and twirred quickly away. The other hummer recovered itself and
disappeared before I reached it. But the bonk on that October day was the loudest bonk I'd heard.
I stood up and looked out the window. Seeing an immobile bird on the ground,
I rushed out to see if it was still alive. It was a mountain chickadee, a tiny (5 ¼ inch) grey
bird with a black-and-white head, a member of the diminutive, busy-body
Titmouse family. It was lying on
its breast, legs clutching pine needles behind it, with wings slightly
spread. The only movement it made
was the blinking of its left eye. The right eye was closed. Its beak was open. I
wondered if it had broken its neck; but if that were the case, its eye wouldn't
have been blinking.
I hovered over it, stroking it to see if I could get a
reaction. But no reaction
came. The bird was in shock
and it was freezing outside. It
needed warmth. So I picked it up
carefully, pulled the pine needles gently from its feet, and rushed back into
the house where I sat with it in cupped hands in front of the propane
fireplace. After a few minutes of
warmth, it began to blink its right eye along with its left, closed its beak,
and moved a little. I took it back
outside, crouched next to an Adirondack chair and opened the palm in which it
sat. It managed to jump an inch or
two onto the arm of the chair where it clung to the near edge with its little
bird feet.
I was saying OM
MANI PADME HUM in a low voice and sending light and warmth to it from my
heart. Although it didn't move,
its feathers gradually fluffed up, seemingly through the simple act of
breathing, as it continued to sit there blinking its black eyes. I could see its breathing by the
expansion and contraction of its white chest. Finally it moved its head from left to right and back again,
looking around as if confused. Where am I? it seemed to be
wondering. But it made no attempt
to fly.
Because it was cold, I stepped back into the house and
watched it through the sliding glass door to see if it would move. The chair arm where it was sitting was
about two feet from the window. The bird just sat there without moving.
I went back out and again crouched next to the chair and
spoke softly to it. "Are you
okay? Do you need to get warm
again in order to recover from the shock?" The chickadee looked at me without fear. I thought it might still be dazed. I gently pried its feet loose from the
chair and cupped it in my hands again.
Back inside I sat resolutely on the coffee table before
the fireplace. The bird was in my
left palm with my fingers curled lightly around it, tail feathers sticking out
between the thumb and index finger. My right hand was poised over it with the circle of my thumb and index
finger open above its head. I did
not want it to suddenly fly out of my hands into the beams of the living room
where the skylight windows might confuse it, cause it to panic and be hard to catch - as I had experienced with hummingbirds. I continued to say mantras and send it light and
warmth. After five more minutes of
warmth I peeked into my hands to see how it looked. Its head was moving back and forth and it was stirring a
little.
"Are you ready to go back out?" I asked. I felt it was and stepped outside.
Again I opened my palm. The chickadee, one of dozens who frequented the birdfeeders
at my neighbor’s and my houses, turned its head toward me and looked me in the
eye. My face was not more than a
foot from its tiny head. It showed
no fear and simply looked at me for a few seconds. As we gazed at each other I smiled: "You okay now?"
It turned its head and looked at the arm of the chair
directly below my palm, then jumped onto the light dust of snow on the
arm. It bobbed its tail and
defecated. I thanked it silently
for waiting to fulfill this need and slowly stood up, not wanting to startle
it. After a few seconds, it flew
onto the back of the chair. As if
getting its bearings, it jumped from one upright on the back of the chair to
another, turning this way and that, looking around. Then it flew the short distance, about a yard, to the corner
of the house where it clung sideways, then to a pipe under the eaves where it
again clung sideways. Finally it
flew to a tall tree across the road.
I breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to the door
with an inner smile. Another
creature rescued. Another
success. I wondered how many birds
and mammals I had revived and returned to freedom. I hadn't counted, but I thought perhaps as many as I hadn't
been able to save. An equal number, probably, of successes
and failures. But, I thought, it's
always worth a try; for when I do succeed, I feel thankful for the opportunity
to see the life force of a wild creature regain enough ground in the hands of a
human to carry on. Such encounters
are like grace. They give me
faith.
About a week later I began to notice that I was
frequently seeing a mountain chickadee clinging to the outside of the kitchen
window, looking inside at me, and then flying the short distance to the bird
feeder that hung two feet beyond the window. This feeder was designed
especially for the small birds. Larger birds and squirrels that scared the little ones away couldn't take
advantage of it, so the little birds didn't have to compete with them. Thus the feeder was a busy place, with
many species of small birds coming and going throughout the daylight hours. However, the mountain chickadee was the
only species to land on the window.
Occasionally I also saw a mountain chickadee performing
the same trick on the outside of the glass door to the deck, which was the next
window to the left. Mountain
chickadees seemed able to gain a foothold on just about anything. The windows in our cabin were composed
of thin vertical and horizontal wooden mullions that contained smaller panes
within the larger wooden frame. Both the door to the deck and the kitchen window were in this style, and
the chickadee always landed on a horizontal mullion at about eye level when I
was standing up.
Of course I immediately wondered whether the mountain
chickadee looking at me through the window was the one that I rescued from
freezing to death while in shock. I realized that I would have loved to think that it recognized me and
was trying to communicate with me. However, because I would have liked to think that and because I thought it
improbable, I discounted the possibility. I would have needed solid proof that it was the same bird,
but I couldn't tell one bird from another of the same species when there were
so many of them. So, trying to be
reasonable, I thought that whatever bird landed on the windows could be any of
the several mountain chickadees that were frequenting the feeder. Perhaps several of that species could
be doing this, one at a time. There didn't have to be only one mountain chickadee that was looking at
me through the window.
Then one day, one particular chickadee did get my attention in such a way that I had to wonder: Is this the one?
I was out on the deck filling a bucket
with sunflower seeds. I had just
refilled and re-hung the birdfeeder. My back was to the trees growing through the deck, and in front of me on
the table was a full bucket of sunflower seeds. Right behind me I heard the sound of a chickadee and turned
around to see a mountain chickadee looking at me and talking to me in its raspy
voice. It flew to a branch over my
head and looked from me to the bucket and back to me. I took half a step back from the bucket and the bird landed
on the rim. It looked at me and
then dipped its head into the bucket, picked up a sunflower seed, then flew
back to the tree.
All of this took place within about fifteen seconds, but
a couple of things seemed worth noting. First of all, it was the first time a mountain chickadee had
voluntarily come so close to me. They usually kept their distance. But this one showed no fear of me. It acted familiar, as if it knew me. Secondly, I had just hung the feeder up, so it didn't need to get a seed from the bucket, unless it wanted to take the opportunity to say
"Hi." Was it the one I
had rescued? Was it saying, Hi, remember me? Was it letting me know it knew me
and remembered our encounter? Was
it letting me know it was all right? I wondered if I was crazy.
However, the last thing worth noting was that after the
encounter at the sunnie bucket, I never again saw a chickadee clinging to the
window and looking in at me, though chickadees continued to use the feeder.
After this mysterious and touching experience with the
chickadee, I began to research interspecies experiences between humans and
other animals. I found a lot of
stories of wild animals coming back to people who had rescued them, as if to
acknowledge and thank the rescuers. These are always very moving experiences for the people involved. (See Animal Allies and its links.)
At this point, I feel less shy about interpreting the
encounter at the sunnie bucket as that particular chickadee’s gesture of
gratitude by showing that it knew and trusted me, and recognized that I was the
one who filled the birdfeeder. It
clearly wanted to get my attention. When it got my attention, it was as if the chickadee bowed to me in
acknowledgement and thanks. And that was enough. The exchange of reciprocity was over – at least for
the chickadee.
For me, however, it was a gift that inspired me to look
further into the realm of human experiences of reciprocity with wild animals,
which in turn has strengthened my belief in the animistic soul’s need for
numinous, magical experiences with fellow creatures of the Earth.
© 2010 Suzanne Duarte