Resilient like Robins

I've been fighting depression lately. 

One of my tactics is to seek out solace in nature. 

I actively look for beauty each day as I go about my tasks. 

Sometimes, I even take a short break from them to find that moment of loveliness to tide me over.

 In the last week or so I've enjoyed a young rabbit eating dandelions, 

frolicking in the flower beds, tearing circles in the sand box, and lazing in the sun. 

I've savored the sight of sun shining through its ears

and the way its whiskers wiggled as it nibbled.

I've smiled at the endearing way it kicked up its heels, leaping for the sheer joy of life, 

and the way it nestled into the grass, 

hunkering down to enjoy the dappling shade and cool breeze with drowsy eyes.

I've taken in parts of stunning sunsets while sitting on our deck on chilly, windy evenings as my hair whipped my face and the air motion across the bottle top I was holding made it "sing".

I've smelled the roses (literally) on our half-dead, deer-eaten rose bush, 

and admired the way the light illuminated their petals.

I've listened to the bees and hornets hum in the weedy flower beds.

I've gone for a hike with my grumbling kids in the mountains to enjoy greenery and spring waterfalls.

And I've stayed up most of a night 

to watch an amazing lightning display 

during a booming thunderstorm.

All this has carried me through.

The beauty of creation never fails to lighten my load.

I've also been keeping my eye on a pair of robins as they tend their young for the past several weeks.

They built their nest in a barbed wire wreathe on the side of my house.

The mother faithfully kept the three eggs and nestlings warm...

I've heard the frantic peeping and looked out the window to see a meal delivered.

I've smiled knowingly as the parents looked more and more bedraggled and harried each day.

Periodically I've checked in to see how the babies were growing

and have enjoyed their still stares, bright blinking eyes, and the way they nestled together so tightly. 

Today as I was weeding the patio, I took a peek at the fledglings. 

They were larger and more fully feathered. 

As I knelt on the pavers, their parents cheeped insistently and incessantly in the tree above me. I thought that they were scolding me. It struck me as odd that they suddenly found my presence so disturbing. They had seemed quite used to my family's noise and my periodic visits previously.

Soon I heard a flutter overhead. I assumed one of them had arrived at the nest to feed their young. A minute later, to my surprise, a fledgling fluttered down in a flurry of flapping and landed clumsily in front of me. I watched it in awe, afraid to move until it did.

I stood to peer into the nest and saw that there was only one bird left inside. I realized that the fluttering I heard must have been the first fledgling flying forth. The second baby bird had landed near me. I felt blessed to have been so close to this miracle of nature. 

Awkwardly the little ones hopped and flew in short trips around my patio. I smiled as I noted their short stumpy tails, speckled bellies, and the few fuzzy feathers that remained on their heads. 

The robin parents kept up their endless cheeping- begging, demanding, and encouraging their last baby to take to its wings. I went back to my weeding, listening to their shrill chirps and to the drone of buzzing bees 'round me. I marveled at having been graced to witness those few short minutes when birds leave the warmth and security of their nest to gain freedom and face danger, especially since I am only outside for such short intervals. 

Soon, black billed magpies joined in the noise making of the pair of robins. I looked up to see if the magpie pair and the robins were having another battle in their ongoing turf war. The magpies have a nest full of raucous squawkers high in the nearby pine tree. I'd seen the robins harass them and chase them off a number of times in the past, but the birds were not near the magpie nest nor the robin nest. 

I followed the noise and walked around the corner of the house to find the four birds in a tree scolding and screaming at a large red tailed hawk! The hawk clutched a fledgling in its talons and flew awkwardly and lopsidedly away, calling out triumphantly and defiantly in piercing shrieks a few times before disappearing beyond the stable.

I was stunned. The majestic hawk had been so close at hand. The adversaries had joined forces to face a bigger threat. The newly launched robin was already gone.

The ongoing struggle of life and death made my heart ache. And I contemplated how soon my oldest would launch out on his own. I stared at the bees in the flowers at my feet feeling heartbroken for those robin parents. They had worked so hard for nothing.

I began reasoning with myself. Birds of prey have to eat too. In essence, the robins had worked hard to make a meal for a hawk. Technically their work wasn't wasted. And the hawk was magnificent and resplendent. Hawks eat other things not nearly as endearing as robin chicks, like snakes and rodents, and most people don't think twice. How could I begrudge a hawk its meal? 

Still, I thought about the cruel harshness of life. I contemplated how all beauty is mixed with some prick of pain, how the poignant moments increase our capacity for enjoyment, of reveling in things we would otherwise gloss over. How could I resent death and pain when it is an integral part of life? Knowing this did not relieve the gnawing ache in my chest or the tightness in my throat though.

The robin's calls interrupted my thoughts. Again they were insistently crying out. I returned numbly to the patio, engrossed in my thoughts, and found that they had again taken up positions in the tree across from the nest. Again they pleaded and cajoled their last hatchling to set forth.

I was astonished. This loss had not caused them to shelter their last fledgling just a little longer. It did not deter them from their instinct, their duty. They did not give up or even pause, but continued to valiantly fill their role in the complicated and exquisite web of life.

I mulled this over for a few more minutes as I tended my children. Eventually I trudged inside to make dinner for them. It dawned on me as I did this that people reflect this reality too. No matter how hard we try to avoid reality, people die. Tragedies happen. Things hurt. Difficulties continually arise. No matter how much we want to stop the clock, wallow in sadness, or expect life to be forever unenjoyable after such occurrences, it goes on. We still need to do the basics, like eat. We still fall back into our routine, our duties.

This knowledge had previously made me very very sad (the fact that life went on) but for a minute or two as I stood over the stove stirring, I found an odd comfort in it. It meant that life is worth living. Previously I had resented sometimes that life kept swirling around me and dragging me on. I wished to slow down, wished that outward things were different and reflected the great loss, the great hurt that I felt. What I failed to see was that what mattered was that I was different after the difficult experience. If I had not chosen the path of self-pity, in the end I was more compassionate, less prideful, more resilient, and more appreciative of the the many little good things in my life, etc. 

Yes, nearly all of us get on with life. It's not as though we are denying what happened and is happening, are callous, or don't feel the pangs. But we persist despite the tenderness of our hearts. We struggle to keep going, to keep pushing through the myriad of obstacles, to keep trusting in providence, to keep living, because life is hard, but life is good. And in a weird way, the fact that most of us keep persevering.... it's heroic in a small way... just as the robins seemed to be.

Later, while continuing to contemplate the encounter with the robins, it struck me that like the proverbial gold tested in fire, the heartache we traverse can purify us. We can be stripped of selfishness, blindness, and apathy- if we allow ourselves to be. All hardship is an opportunity for growth and understanding. It is an obstacle course that can strengthen us and make us more beautiful. It is suffering, yes, but unless we are self-absorbed and therefore consumed by our pain and unable to look beyond it (and beyond ourselves) suffering and loss do have a purpose, the aforementioned being one purpose. So, now I am trying to be resilient like the robins, to keep going, to not let discouragement and hurt stop me from loving, growing, enjoying, and being faithful to my family, duties, my potential, and God.