Angry Robin

My GP suggested I try writing stuff down.
"I'm writing about birds," I told her, "But that's quite common isn't it?"
She looked at me quizzically and decided, instead, to tell me about how hard talking about death is for doctors.

What she may not know is that all throughout history there has been a link with birds and bereavement.  People who are bereaved suddenly notice birds where none had been before and somehow recognise their departed loved ones in them. 

In a fascinating but alarmingly racist, book Ernest Ingersoll (1932 Birds in legend, fable and folklore) describes incidences where people link birds to death in some way from every country and culture in the world. (It is comforting when you find out you are not mad but just tapping into universal ancient wisdom).

Birds are often seen as omens or harbingers of death but also bringers of wisdom.  We often say, "a little bird told me."
Izzy Judd, wrote, in her memoir about her IVF treatment and the loss of a baby, "We found a pigeon had flown into the window of our conservatory and died.  By the strangest coincidence I'd seen exactly the same thing.......on the day my mother's sister died." Birds flying into the house or down a chimney are seen as a sign of death in almost every culture in the world.

Birds are thought to act as psychopomps (don't you just love that word?) , carrying the spirit of a dead person to the next life or to heaven.  The Romans would release an eagle at the death of an Emperor to carry his soul to heaven and in Japan and China Cranes are believed to carry the souls of those who have achieved mortality to heaven.  (Odd that in our culture storks bring them back).  There are also universal tales of the spirit of a dead loved one arriving in a bird to impart an important message.

I have been wondering why this should be.  What is it about birds that makes us link them to death? Christopher Moreman in his paper 'Relationship between birds and spirits' (2014) argues that "birds embody the quintessential archetype for the transcendence of fear of death and it's resulting selfishness." "A quinti-what? you say." This is why Christopher is an academic and I write blogs.  He defines an archetype as something that is shared by all humans, like the ability to make music,  use language and smile. (I was taught archetypes were developed by Jung to explain his idea of twelve personality types and the collective unconscious but maybe I wasn't listening properly)  He is arguing that all humans fear death and that we have a shared affinity to birds when confronted with it, which stops us "falling into a void of despair at one's impending extinction."

Whilst I agree that we don't like to talk about or think about death, I'm not sure it is always about facing one's own mortality.  My current madness is not, in any way, linked to a thought that I may die even if it does all stem from a lack of communication around death.

I think that bereavement leaves you in a state where you are stuck in your head and that walking, gardening, breathing and looking at nature helps to ground you.  Obviously that doesn't necessarily explain birds but there are an awful lot of them around that we don't normally notice. 

But.....

What if.....

What if it isn't some weird construct developed by all humans to help them cope with dying and bereavement?  What if it's all true?

We can't talk about death because we don't know and we never will.  Nobody will ever develop a mathematical formula to give the definitive answer to the question, "What happens after we die?"  By the time there is any definitive proof, or otherwise, of something next we won't be able to tell anyone.

I was listening to the radio this morning, as they were discussing near death experiences and saying how there is a universal description of a passage or tunnel with light at the end, through which they are guided by other spirits, often loved ones.  There is also an acceptance that once they cross the boarder they can never return to their body.  I thought that if spirits can get into the tunnel to guide the dying then maybe they could get into birds to guide the living through death.

If they can then my Dad chose a robin. 

A few days before Mum died, when my sister and I were out of our depth, alone and frightened she walked the dog down the lane asking for a sign.  A noisy robin appeared on the fence and followed her home.  He popped into the garden at regular intervals, refusing meal worms in favour of lemon drizzle cake.  It was almost as though he was saying, "It's alright.  I'm here."  On Sunday, a bird, that looked like the same robin visited my garden.  He sat on the fence, shouting.  That robin was furious.  All evening he kept up.  We searched the garden in vain for cats and laughed, wondering what could be making him so cross. Then my sister sent me a photo of a baby bird in a shoe box.

If you are ever looking for suggestions of something to give to a person who is grieving after nursing their loved one through a complicated death then probably a very sick baby bird would not be the best choice. That person would do their best.  Amazing carers always do.  They would give it a bath and pick over twenty huge mites off it, grind up meal worms in the coffee grinder, feed it water through a pipette, sit up with it all night, cut a bra in half for it to sleep in, google the best way to care for it and all of those things will feel familiar, along with the impending sense of doom that nothing they do will keep this little bird alive.

The robin was still on my fence, shouting.  I listened more carefully.
"I've always hated that woman," he chirruped.
"I know," I told him, "but I never did understand why before."

The baby swift was taken to a wildlife hospital and the robin has gone back to his own garden, singing sweetly, maintaining a watchful presence and hoping for lemon drizzle cake.

Pigeons, Doves, Bobs and other annoying birds.

On Thursday, it was a Jay day.
"Did you see that bird?" I said to the over-excited estate agent, who walked into my mum's garden with his clipboard. "I think it was a Jay."
"It's a beautiful garden," he gushed.
"Yes, yes but did you see the bird?" I asked. "I don't think it was a normal magpie. There was a flash of blue. It might have been a Jay. They are quite shy birds, often stay in the woodlands.  It's probably quite special to have a Jay in the garden.  I'm sure there's something about ancestral wisdom with Jays."
Sighing, the agent realised that he would have to talk about birds to have any kind of meaningful conversation with the mad woman he had just made cry.
"The problem with feeding birds," he said, "is the pigeons. I hate pigeons, they're really annoying."
I thought that they weren't the only ones but I said nothing.
Jay days are difficult and a bit elephanty and so I'm going to write about pigeons instead.

Every day is pigeon day. The agent was right.  If you feed the birds you get the pigeons and they sit on the fence, pooping on your nice sun loungers, bobbing their heads to impress the females, having noisy, flappy sex if their bobbing has done the trick, and annoying the dog.

We don't get the Rock/Feral Pigeons that you see in London, spying on the world from their strategic positions on top of the statues and buildings. Our pigeons don't have the two-tone green and purple breast that looks like an oil slick around Southend pier on a sunny day. We don't hear the burbling coo of secrets passing between them. Oh no.  Our pigeons are noisy. 

The Long Suffering Husband has been woken by the birds at 3.30 for the last few mornings and he's had enough. It would be alright, he thinks, if it was just the little birds. Twittering tits and squabbling starlings he could cope with but the pigeons take the biscuit.  Actually, they don't just take the biscuit they take the whole packet.

I wanted to know what type bothered him the most but he was confused. He just thought there was one type of pigeon.  I explained how we didn't get the London Pigeons but how we had two other types of pigeon birds and they sounded different.

The wood pigeon is the fatter of the two, is dark grey with a white ring around it's neck and possibly a little green tinge on it's breast.  It has an orange beak and more beady eyes. It's coo is softer.

The Collared Dove is a light grey, slim line variety, with blacker eyes, a thin black collar and, surprisingly, a football hooligan voice.

"So, did it say, 'Who is Bob Austin?'  or did it shout, 'Who are you? Bob Austin?'" I asked the LSH.
He just laughed.
"It's how you tell the difference," I said.
"Yes, but who is Bob Austin?" the LSH wanted to know.

It was my Dad that told me the difference between the two bird calls and he would often do this odd thing of wandering around the house randomly saying, "BobAustin," when I was small.  I think he just liked the way the sound of it bounced out of his mouth.

"He was the bus conductor," I replied and then told the LSH about how, when my parents were first married and dirt poor, Dad had often run out of money on a Thursday before he was paid and how a nice bus conductor used to let him on, knowing that Dad would pay double the next day. 

"You made that up," accused the LSH.
"Did I?" I winked. 

Today is Swan Day

Some days, it's difficult to get out of bed.  That's not strictly true.  Some days it's difficult to stay out of bed.  The temptation to go back and pull a sheet over your head, read a book, play an online game, or just think random thoughts is too much.

"Are you working today?" I sent a text to a friend.  If I arranged to meet her there would be a reason to get out and stay out.  I had promised myself that I would clean the patio and ring the National Trust about the cheque they had sent in my Dad's name but neither of those things felt like a good enough reason to stay out of bed.

We met and then I walked. Walking and breathing are wonderful things. Never quite sure what route I'm going to take, or how long it might take me to get home is very freeing.  It's nice to feel like nothing matters.  The sky is blue, the ground is under your feet, there are no elephants to battle and there are birds everywhere. 

I walked along the canal, noticing today's terrible golfers when I saw something ahead of me on the path.  It looked like a big pillow.  I kept walking and as I got closer I could see it was a swan.  A swan on the path. Now, a swan isn't a tiger and so there is no need to run away but I did feel my breathing quicken.  The little voice in my head said, "Swans are bolshy. It could break your arm."
I breathed.  Have I mentioned that breathing is good? I got close and the swan plucked a feather from behind its wing and chucked it at me.

"Excuse me," I said, "What did you do that for?"
"Well, you know, white feathers, angels, good luck and stuff."
"Don't be silly," I said, "You know I don't believe in all that and it's clearly not an angel's feather because I saw you pull it out of your back."
The swan pouted.  Yes, I know! I didn't know swans could pout either.
"Today is swan day, today is swan day, today is swan day, everybody's happy, well I should say," sang the swan.
"Really?" I asked, "I was hoping it was going to be something more exotic."
"More exotic that a swan?" the swan said, incredulous at the idea.
"I was hoping for a kingfisher," I told her.
She laughed.  "You'll never see a kingfisher, you can't sit still for long enough."
She had a point.
"Maybe down by the falls but I think you'll find it's swan day down there too."
I was disappointed. I didn't want it to be swan day.
"What does swan day even mean?" I asked.
"Well, you know what they say about swans don't you?"
"Break your arm as soon as look at you?" I replied
"No, not that," she said. "But I might if you don't think about it." She winked.
I shrugged.  There are loads of myths about swans.  There's the one about the eight sisters, the idea that they are shape shifters between human and swan form being common. They represent love and fidelity, mating for life and are a symbol of light.  The ancient Greeks thought the swan represented the muses.
"I'm not going to have to write poetry, am I?" I asked, thinking of the Greeks.
"Don't make me laugh," the swan honked, "You are terrible at rhyming. You're not going to get it are you?"
I confessed that I didn't think I was.
"You know, how we look all calm on top but underneath we're paddling like f..."
"Hey," I interrupted "Careful! I've been told off for swearing in the blog before.  People don't like it."
The swan stretched her neck, re-positioned it into a question mark and fixed me with a look of contempt that shot straight down her bill.
"paddling like fury underneath."
"Oh yes, I know that one."
"Well, it's a myth. We have big fat feet and we push and glide.  We don't go very far and we are just as laid back as we look.  You should try it."
"You mean you're not working hard all the time?"
"Of course not," she snapped, "You humans, always looking for an excuse to be busy. If you want to be a swan you need to glide and take a break."
I started to walk away, wondering if I might see a kingfisher by the falls.
"There once was an ugly duckling...." the swan sang.
I looked on the canal and saw her five babies.
"They're not ugly," I shouted back, "taking a break then are you?"
"Be more swan," she shouted in reply.

She was right, it was swan day by the falls too. Not a kingfisher in sight.  Just swans gliding and paddling up the slope, sucking tasty morsels out of the weed. I sat by the canal and thought what it might be like to be more swan but my legs were too restless to keep it up for long. Just as I was getting up the swan flew over the top of me.
"Ha! Knew it!" she called, "Far too human to be swan."

Barcelona Birds

It was my fault.

It's always my fault.

"I can't talk to anyone," I sobbed at the Long Suffering Husband, "I just want to run away."

The LSH is a very nice man, although, at times, rather literal and that is how I found myself on the way  to Barcelona for a long weekend.  If you are going to run, it might as well be to somewhere nice and sunny and if you can't talk to anyone, you might as well go to a country that speaks a language where you only know one word.* Spanish has always been a mystery to me and I'll never work out the phonics of the letter c.

There were challenges.  Travelling when you are anxious is tricky, as are crowds, noise and bizarrely, churches. However, as walking, while looking at my feet or the sky and noticing bird have been my saviours, my view of Barcelona was unique.

I can't tell you about the Segrada Familia (except that there are doves and a bassoonist carved on the outside), the cathedral, the beach or any of the bars but I if you want to know about the trees, pavements and birds of the Catalan capital then I'm your woman.

The birds were the first thing I noticed.  They sounded different. Noisier, faster in their chatter than British birds.  They were somewhere hidden in the trees lining the streets.  Trees that burst with loud colours. No muted pink and white blossom of English trees.  The trees in Barcelona were proud and loud. Bright orange flowers of the Tipu tree, with it's pea-like leaves competed with the regal purple of the Jacarandas.  The flowers fell and covered the pavement stone carved with child-like flowers.

There were the usual sparrows (but bigger and noisier) and pigeons (there are pigeons everywhere) but there were also Swallows  and the larger paler Alpine Swifts diving, gliding and swooping, even in the heat of the midday sun, shouting for everyone to admire their acrobatic feats.

"One swallow doesn't make a summer," I muttered.
The LSH thought that Summer wasn't in doubt.  "Swifts flying high, weather staying dry." I replied.
He seemed relieved, as we do normally get rain when we go away.
They were making a lot of noise.
"It can't all be coming from the swallows," I said to explain why I kept stopping and looking up at the trees. "All that noise."

Then we saw them.  Bright green, chattering parakeets, with white faces.  Once you have seen them they are everywhere and the longer you are in Barcelona the less bothered by you they are. It's a good job we were only there for a long weekend, or I would have had a Monk Parakeet riding on my shoulder, learning English. These birds are thriving.  The descendants of escaped pets from the 1970s there are now over 10,000 of them.
"Look, there's a falcon!" The LSH had spotted a Peregrine hovering, hoping for a small bright green bird for tea. The authorities had introduced them to keep the numbers of parakeets down.  I'm not sure it's working and I'm glad.  I became quite fond of those bright green birds. Much better than pigeons.  In a flock of pigeons, you should always choose to be a parakeet.

At Park Guell, (where Gaudi lived and played) even the pigeons are decorated.

"Is there anything you want to see?" The LSH thrust the guidebook at me, hoping I might want to follow the tourist trail.
"There is a statue called woman and bird, I think we should see that."

We looked at it from several angles.

"Is it me, or does that look like a penis?" I asked.

The LSH agreed that he couldn't see a woman or a bird.

Here are the rest of my holiday snaps.

*The only Spanish word I know is sacapuntas, which means pencil sharpener (not pencil case, as my daughter told me.)  It is a word I kept hearing while the LSH was watching football. Spanish people apparently shout "pencil sharpener!" when they get excited.

(Who said, my one word wouldn't come in handy?)

Seagull day

Yesterday morning the sky was grey and there was a feeling of storm in the air. I opened the door and the dog said, “I’m not sure about this. You know how much I hate rain. Can we stay close to home?”
I agreed. It was the kind of day where you can smell the seaweed. Mackerel Sky, mackerel sky, not long wet and not long dry. Fish scales in the clouds.

I wondered what day it was. There was no one at home so it couldn’t be a Saturday or Sunday but a weekend felt close. Keeping track of days has become tricky. If the day before had been blackbird day I wondered what bird day this would be. I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Some days, when there’s a storm at sea and the air smells of fish the sky is filled with squawking and flapping grey wings. This doesn’t happen often. Our dawn chorus isn’t full of  the laughing, barking and cackling that you get at proper seaside towns. Gulls are loud at 3am.

Yesterday was seagull day.

They were everywhere; floating, like tissues tossed in the breeze. Warning of impending doom; the trapped souls of sailors, screaming and swooping.

We stayed close to home, walking along the sea wall, through the park, along the footpaths and into town. The dog hid behind a bollard as we passed the Emporium, “We can’t walk past,” he said, “They love me in there. They give me biscuits.” I refused his request because..well... people but if I had known the trauma he was about to suffer I would have capitulated.



We walked further up the high street, passed Costa and the independent boutiques that sell clothes I never buy and up to the charity shops. The cancer research shop has blue painted windows with a wide low sill, where toddlers sit waiting for their mums to finish chatting. Yesterday, there was a chip on the ledge that the dog didn’t spot but a seagull did. As we walked past the seagull dived, landed on the dog’s back, grabbed the chip and flew off. Yes, that’s right. A seagull landed on my dog. Actually put both talloned feet on his fury back. It happened very fast, not giving the dog time to bark or even give a warning growl but just to leave him shocked and shaking. When he recovered he said, “I can’t believe I missed that chip.”

Since I have been confessing my madness and my obsession, in grief, with birds, friends have been sending me photographs, paintings, poems, stories and songs that have been inspired by these feathered creatures. It’s like a condolence, a “I’m sad with you and here are the birds I’ve noticed.”
I have enormous faith that people really want to help when you are lost and grieving but often don’t know what to do. Sometimes the grief stricken can get cross and snappy with their feeble attempts wondering why they are being asked so many questions. There really is no answer to, “Are you alright?” So much better to get a photo of nesting swallows, a beautiful original song about magpies, or a gif of the Pope dressed as a flamingo.

On Seagull day, one of my friends sent me a message. She had a bird story. She is moving to run a guesthouse in a place with Seagulls the size of small dogs and as she was putting the last of the bread in the garden for the birds about sixty seagulls (a bird she, luckily, loves the sound of - wait until 3am   at the seaside and then tell me you still love them.) came to eat. She felt as though they were saying goodbye and wishing her luck on her journey. I’ve always thought that the symbolism of the seagull is about the journey. This idea probably comes from Richard Bach’s beautiful book, Jonathan Livingstone Seagull. “Why is it so hard for you to be one of the flock?” This story is a metaphor for taking one’s own journey and finding yourself. Grief will make you re-evaluate these things.

Blackbird

Yesterday was blackbird day. I have no idea of the actual date, or day of the week but I can tell you that it was blackbird day. Walking is still the thing I’m doing. I can see the appeal of a pilgrimage. I understand the strange people, who in grief decide to walk the whole of the UK coastal path: 6000 miles. They pretend they are raising money for charity but as Alex Ellis Roswell said on completing his 9,500 miles (he did Ireland too), “I didn’t realise it when I set off - not consciously- but I guess I was walking through my grief.” I think that’s what I’m doing but I have no intention of raising money or sleeping in a tent. Instead, I’m walking in ever decreasing circles and stopping when the dog gets to the, “That’s it! You’re going to have to drag me!” stage.

I take photos of clouds, pick wild flowers and listen for birds. Yesterday, on blackbird day, I walked 9 miles from home to Woodham Walter, Cocks Clark, Purleigh and back. I ran through wheat fields, scattering bunnies (see Theresa May, I can be naughty too, although I did stay on the footpath. I walked down country lanes that reminded me of my childhood and stopped at a pub for a fizzy water. I nosed in gardens and dodged people riding horses. During the whole walk, I was accompanied by blackbirds.

Blackbirds are underated. People forget about them because they are here all year but they are the best singers. A few years ago I had a blackbird in my garden that learnt the first bar of the Poulenc flute sonata.  The babies start with a ‘peep’ and gradually grow their range. The birds that followed me on my walk had a vast repertoire of song. One, even had a white tail.

In folklore the blackbird is an interesting creature. They symbolise reincarnation and Irish mythology they were thought to hold the souls of the recently deceased while they waited in purgatory to discover whether heaven or hell was to be their fate. Also, seeing two together or having one nest near your house is lucky.

Tit

The problem being a bit doolally bonkers is that you can get obsessed.  At the moment, it's birds.
My sister is the same.  We are watching, feeding, videoing the birds.  We both had blue tits in our bird boxes just after mum died. Don't mention the dead baby birds if you want people to think you are sane.

Today was tit day.  My blue tit returned, looking very much worse for wear, so I walked into town to buy extra bird food.

When I was in town I made a tit of myself.  I missed my opportunity to avoid someone.  Mostly, I've been scouring the horizon and if I've seen anyone I know I turn or look down.  Mostly, people ignore me.  Today, a nice lady didn't.  "Hello, how are you? I was so sorry to hear..... Are you alright?"
The hot flush started, my chest got tight and I tried to run.  Yes, I actually tried to turn and run away from her but she put her arm around me.  The thing is that I can't say how I am because I am actually bonkers and I don't want to be.  I'm not sure how this encounter ended but I'm pretty sure I made a tit of myself.

It was a relief to get home and hang the fat balls up. I also bought some nigella seeds because I thought I heard a goldfinch and am curious to see if tomorrow's blog will be about finches.