27 October 2014 A GARDEN MEDITATION
Whistling to the Birds
These days I am whistling to the birds. First, in the early morning the mockingbirds wake me up with their melodious, sweet assertions. They implore the air, and me, to attend to the day.
After I have had breakfast, I walk out into my garden--a paradise of cool, sweet air--a resurrecting experience much like waking up from sleep without the conscious, nagging mind. I then feed them, casting about their seeds under the rose bushes. I do this every morning because they are my constituents and will always vote for me, especially the black headed grosbeaks (senior members) who are the sure sign that all is well.
The mockingbirds perch way up on the whippy, swaying tips of the timber bamboo and sing out their territorial challenges. I, of course, whistle back to them. They wait a long moment eye me, process what they have heard, and whistle back songs from their repertoire; and, at the end of their birdy litany, they call out that which I have whistled to them. My son and daughter affirm that there is a communication going on for sure. However, they say that it is probably unknown what I have said, that which is whistled. But, that is not the point. I conclude that my whistling creates a mysterious communion of sorts, a connection with the minds and spirits of the mockingbirds.
Mockingbirds imitate cell phones and Caltrans whistles, so what communication is there? A bird with a machine? Come on-no way!
Nevertheless, the mockingbirds seem to enjoy my garden; a genuine part of its ambiance is this whistling on my part and their response. An antiphon involving living creatures.
I suppose that for eons people have whistled to the birds--hunters certainly have--and the curious birds have appeared. Now, people don't whistle as much as they once did, and besides what would shutdown, disaffected neighbors say. As a matter of fact, I cannot remember the last time time I heard a person whistle. Maybe people lose it with age or the loss of imagination and joy. I whistled a lot as a boy.
Well, as far as I am concerned, my proper neighbors here in rights-ville, middle class suburbia don't have much fun, let alone real joy. Neither are they appreciative of the scents of morning flowers, of the dew that caresses the grass and other plants, and of the calls of the birds. They don't even know the names of the birds that visit their "lands".
True, I don't know what I am whistling or saying to the birds. I simply like to do it. But, I do know that I feel their presences in ways that some people never feel the core of others in simple, human conservation. So, I suppose you could say that I am having a conversation, I am talking with them, the way dogs bark in the late twilight before going to sleep.
This is the main point; to be open to the Being of others, even to the Being of plants and birds.
Isn't that what Francis of Assisi experienced when the birds trusted him, coming to him and perching on his shoulders and hands when he spoke to them with affection and joy? He touched their Being.
