Every. Single. Day.

So I started this writing class, taught by a prof I've taken another class from. Write every day, she says. That's not exactly foreign to me, though some days I struggle to write anything that might see the light of day, even if said light is just a post on this blog. My archives are filled with rough drafts of posts that never see the publish button because they bore the living daylights out of me. Things start out as a good idea and end up being piles of drivel. The word drivel always reminds me of Steve Martin's book, Pure Drivel. Ah, if only I could write half as well as Steve Martin does.

I press on for several reasons, not the least of which is that I've written for as long as I can remember. I've observed for at least as long as I've written and observational musings, particularly those that are humorous, are fascinating to me. There's a lot to be said for humorous behavior in humans - do I notice such things and remember them because I like to laugh at others, or do I simply like to laugh and I'll take it from any source that it may come from? Sometimes I rationalize it - the laughing at others, I mean, because I'm completely willing to laugh at my own behavior and be okay with others having a laugh at my expense. 

Human behavior is a curious thing. I'll admit that I often see humor in places where others refuse to even look for it - but that's not to say that there are places and times when it doesn't exist, and when it shouldn't. Then there are times when no one is looking for it and it shows up unannounced and refuses to let anyone present ignore it. Those are the times when it might be just what anyone in the room needs to add a bit of light to an otherwise dreadful situation.

So what's the point here? We'll see. Write every day, for the class and for myself. The two won't meet up here, but they will feed off of one another. So there you have it, writing every day. That in and of itself will get things going. Just write every day, says my professor. Every single day - even on the ones where you struggle to find the time, write.

And so, he did. I'm a firm believer in the creative power of ideas, and sometimes it takes a crappy idea to give way to a better one, maybe even a great one. So it all has to come out, even the drivel.

There you have my coffee thoughts - the homework I'm not about to share here, that'll end up in the class forum threads, where I can see what my classmates think about it. That's all the time I have for today, tune in tomorrow - and who knows, maybe I'll have something more meaningful to say...or at least more humorous. 

Peace, good people - here's to the start of a week that will hopeful bring great things to us all. Monday, off to get at it!

CRO

1 For 3 For The Birds

On this 4th of July morning, it looks as if I'm going to go one for three on my attempts to save a bird. One success, two goodbyes that take longer than I'd like. I know nature can be harsh and who am I to interfere...but sometimes I do. I'm a grown man, but I've always kind of over-humanized animals. I guess that's why I could never hunt.

On three different occasions, I've come across birds that were in need of help...or maybe I simply needed to walk away and not put so much thought into living creatures, or things like natural selection, but living creatures are magnificent beings and I share the same space with them - unless the living creature is a stink bug, in which case I will decide that living creature's fate.

Birds are a splendid fascination for me. So much variety, color and the ability to take to the skies at will. While there are other animals in nature that I'm much more fond of, I do like watching and photographing birds - and I have planted my garden with things specifically to draw birds for photo opportunities.  This is probably because some of my earliest memories of my grandparents are of them pointing out various birds that would come around. As a grown man, I find the variety of birds enjoyable to watch and now it reminds me of times around my grandparents.

Birds belong in the sky, on the trees and their freedom to alternate between the two is nice to watch.. I'm sitting here writing this on a morning and the sounds of different birds calling out is music to my ears. A few feet away from me, in a shoe box that I cut holes into to allow air into, is an injured young Dove that my neighbor pointed out to me yesterday morning.

At first glance, I thought this young bird was dead - but she wasn't. I didn't know exactly what to do, but I knew I couldn't just leave her there to fend for herself. She was still alive, she is still alive and to me, that means she has a chance. A chance to take to the sky if she wants or needs to, a chance to go from branch to branch, a chance to do what birds do - fly.

I don't know what happened to this little Dove - it appears as though her neck is broken. Yesterday when I found her, she could still fly a bit. I know this because she hopped out of the container I'd put her in and made a few valiant attempts at getting away from me. I'd hoped that she was merely stunned and would gather up her strength and fly away soon. I put her safely on a branch at eye level hoping that she would rest up and leave when she was ready. I'm a sap sometimes. I gave her the name Mercy - because I had mercy on her and wanted her to fly away. I guess I had too much mercy on her to simply walk away from her plight.

She wasn't having it. She flew down and landed a few yards away. I thought I should try again because I didn't feel that she'd be safe in her current state sitting on the ground. She seemed to get better at her attempts to get away from me, flying a few yards away with all the grace of an airplane that was quickly running out of fuel.

This morning I can't help but wonder if I should have just let her take enough short flights out of my sight, but I couldn't bring myself to do that because each landing left her looking worse off than the one before it. I quickly decided on this creature's behalf and maybe I shouldn't have done that. Maybe this was it for her. Why couldn't I accept that, no matter how cruel it seemed? Because birds should take to the air, whenever they want. Sometimes nature has other plans, plans beyond the scope of human understanding.

So this morning I sit here on my patio, a few feet away from a young Dove that apparently has a broken neck. Every time she stirs, my heart fills with hope that she'll get her strength back and fly off. There's even this tiny bit of hope that she'll return often out of gratitude for this human creature giving her a second chance. How f'kn Snow White of me.  None of that is according to the plans of nature. She's not improving, she's moving all she can - and that's not even enough to kick her survival adrenaline into gear enough for her to fly even a couple of feet away from this scary human creature. I don't have the old school farmer heart to man up and put her out of her misery, my heart wouldn't let me leave her where I saw her yesterday - I had to try. That's what I told myself.

The last time I tried to save a bird, I succeeded. It was a bird that had flown into the screen door and stunned itself with a thud. When I went outside to see what that sound was, here on the walkway was a bird, still a bit door struck. I no sooner noticed the bird when I saw Gizmo, my roommate's cat walking towards this bird with a look on his face that said, "Ooooh, this is my lucky day!"...Uh, no...not today, Giz. I scooped the bird up with a shovel and set him up on a tree branch so he could collect himself in safety. Half an hour later and he had flown off.

The first time I tried to save a bird, I'd come home on my lunch hour and as I was walking towards my apartment, I look down on the blacktop and see a featherless, pink baby bird with its eyes not even open yet. It's moving! To leave this little creature there would've killed it within an hour on the hot pavement that Summer day. I found a box to put the poor thing in, went inside and had my lunch, checked on this tiny bird, still moving and left for work. I told a coworker about it and he came over to look for a nest nearby that the bird may have fell out of. No such luck. I called several potential places that I thought surely would want me to bring the creature in so that it could be saved. None offered up any encouragement at all.

I cringe at the thought of how I went and bought worms, chopped them up and fed this poor thing over the next three days. I put it in a small Easter basket filled w/grass and hung the basket beneath the patio lighting sconce. Three days is what I bought this little thing - and on the fourth morning, the tiny pink bird was dead. Never to feather, never to fly.

Had I left this Dove to fend for herself, I doubt the cat that was so interested in her would've shown her much Mercy. I wonder what it is about me that makes me keep believing in miracles and second chances so long after most others stop. It's no use they'll tell me, and deep down I suppose I know they're right - but what if...keeps going through my head. What if she just needs more time to gather up her strength? What if there is something someone can do for her? This poor thing can't be comfortable in her current state. Is she more comfortable than letting a cat have at her? Poor thing can't seem to keep her head upright and I can see in those peaceful black Dove eyes of hers that she's fading. I can see that she doesn't really want to go, but resistance is growing more futile by the minute. Again, no farmer's logic in my heart - I'd do anything for this poor creature, but what I cannot do is put her out of her misery - and I can't do that because what I want to do is save her. And what I can't seem to accept this morning, is that there isn't anything that is going to do that. So what's a guy to do?

Some friends told me about a park that may take her - and if they can help her, they will. It's a long haul of a drive, and one that I hate to take if this bird won't be able to fly away, or more likely, they'll realize that hope has vanished and they will do for her what I cannot do. I could walk her over to the dumpster and metaphorically wash my hands of this cruel reality of nature - but my heart (foolish as it is) tells me to do something more compassionate, and to rationalize such actions. This is one of God's creatures. A creature that once had the ability to take to the sky at will. I am also one of God's creatures...and a creature that seems to lack the ability and desire to accept what hurts my heart a bit and to simply let this creature go. There are so many other birds that I will see fly on this Independence Day - but none of them do I want to see fly more than this young Dove. I've done all I can here, some would say more than I should. Flying is a beautiful ability to have - I don't have that ability, to fly, but for in spirit. Mercy, the Dove I happened upon yesterday morning, had that ability and all I wanted was for her to fly again.

There's a contrast here this week - earlier in the week I was fortunate to see a baby Downy Woodpecker take some of his first flights ever. He was terrified, but he actually was better at this new flying thing than even he realized - but he was still too scared to do much of it. He sat in branches crying out for his parents - and letting me get some nice photographs of him. I saw him once the next day and then he had gained enough confidence that I haven't seen him since. How awesome is that, to see a baby bird take some of its first flights? And days later, I saw this young Dove take her few last flights, fueled with adrenaline in a last push to survive. These weren't graceful flights, they were valiant attempts to get away from this big human creature that surely meant her harm - yet I took hope in every one of them. Lord, sometimes I just wish I were stronger. I'm sorry, little Mercy Dove.
Peace, good people.

CRO