Colonial Life

One opportunity that winter provides is the ability to see all those bird nests that had been so well hidden when the trees held leaves. Most often we see confirmation that birds are pretty solitary when they nest. In the breeding season, birds of a feather not only do not flock together but they quarrel over territory in which they attract mates and then forage for food to raise the young.

But there are exceptions to this general rule. Some birds are what are called colonial nesters. That is, instead of defending an individual territory they build their nests close to each other. When birds nest in colonies they have to travel farther to find food since there is rarely enough in the immediate vicinity of the colony to feed the entire group. But this is offset by the protection provided by more eyes and ears. Colonial nesters come in all sizes from Purple Martens to Great Blue Herons. There is the beginning of a heron rookery in Brimfield that is visible from the turnpike. This year there was only a single pioneering family there. In time they will surely be joined by others.

More typically, the colony only succeeds because of the numbers. Such a species is the Monk Parakeet. These noisy, large green parrots made a foray into the southeastern portion of the state in recent years. Their large, active nest of sticks is the equivalent of a busy avian apartment building. It is truly a marvel to witness such a thing in a suburban back yard! But, to the best of my knowledge this colony has failed so one must go further afield to see this species.

We humans, like it or not, are more like Monk Parakeets than chickadees or even herons. We may quarrel about what is ours and work hard to obtain personal possessions, but in the end we desperately need each other. For the most part, a chickadee only needs other chickadees to propagate the species, but even they know enough to forage together when the going gets tough, say, in the winter. And while some of us may risk pioneering efforts like the solitary heron family did this year, the purpose of blazing a way is for others to follow. No, we are a species that is at its best when we lean on others for help. Together we are greater than we are individually. Jesus knew this when he prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane that "they may all be one." Colonial living may try our patience. It might mean putting up with some that we would rather do without. But not one of us is indispensable, just as one body has many parts…and needs them all!

Light of the World

On a recent Monday afternoon, I parked along the power canal in Turner’s Falls, pulled out my lunch and started waiting. A thorough scan of the geese resting on the water made it clear that the bird I was looking for was not present. Amongst the Canada Geese, the small, white Ross’ Goose would have stood out like a sore thumb. So I enjoyed my lunch, listened to Car Talk on the radio, talked with my brother on the phone, talked with other birders who showed up for the same reason and well, mostly just waited…and waited…and waited.

Waiting is the most common activity of birders. The problem with waiting is the pressure to do something else. Sometimes it is the pressure to abandon the stake out in order to look elsewhere. Other times it is the pressure to do other things, like laundry or like getting supper. Sometimes it is the pressure just to admit defeat and go home. This last is the one against which we always fight the most. But when the rest of the area geese finally started to fly in to join the original group the sun had already begun to set. Each small group of geese coming in for a noisy landing of flapping wings and squawking honks brought with it a ray of hope even as the rays of the sun slipped away

Then in what turned out to be the final group of geese there was a smaller white bird. It was now full fledged twilight but the white of this goose was still quite visible. Surely this was the bird—but how were we to see it well enough to be sure? At this point I was glad that I had driven the minivan instead of the sedan. I turned the van so that the headlights, just barely higher than the guardrail, shone on the water where the goose was.

This is the time of year when we watch the light slip away as days grow shorter. Thus it is not by chance that we celebrate Christmas during this season. Humanity is lost in the dark without God, so we look for the coming of the light. Sometimes we feel the pressure to stop waiting, to stop looking. The darkness falls around us and we think there is nothing more that we can do. But if Christ is indeed the light of the world then shouldn’t we keep waiting…and waiting…and waiting?

And then when the gift of God comes in the dark of night don’t you want to be there to see it? And here is part of the great mystery of each Christmas since the first one. Since Jesus has already been born we are not waiting for that child. In fact, we believe that this baby is now the risen Christ…whose new birthing place is not a manger, but our hearts. So, in a way, all this waiting is just to see if we will understand that the light of the world can and should now shine from each of us. Will you help those in need around you by letting your light shine? There is no greater gift you can give this Christmas.

I Hear Music in the Air

Bird vocalizations can generally be separated into songs and calls. Typically songs are the music of courtship, heard almost exclusively in the spring. Birds use calls for basic communication. They tell each other things like, “there’s food over here,” or “stay away,” or “danger!” Songs are usually melodious and sometimes complex, very often providing conclusive identification of the species audibly. Calls tend to be chips and twitters, often similar between species. Even after years of experience it takes some real chutzpah to claim to be able distinguish between the chip notes of most sparrows. A few calls are distinct enough to distinguish like the lispy chip of White-throated Sparrows or the nearly ultra-sonic squeal of an agitated Tufted Titmouse. Agitation is often a reason for calls. Ironically, when a large congregation of small birds chip and twitter together in a scolding tone it doesn’t matter if you can identify the noisy birds since they are aiding you in identifying a silent one. Hearing a racket coming from chickadees, titmice and nuthatches in the yard a week ago I scrambled for my binoculars in hope of seeing the bird that had upset them. Typically this would mean seeing an Eastern Screech-owl roosting, but this time of year it could equally likely be a Saw-whet Owl. I saw neither, but just because I didn’t see an owl didn’t mean there wasn’t one there.

The experience reminded me of the words of a wonderful spiritual: “Over my head, I hear music in the air. There must be a God somewhere.” What a sublime expression of hope! Hope is a precious commodity, too often in limited supply. Our lives are enriched and empowered when we can allow simple gifts like the songs of birds lift our spirits and confirm our belief in God. Harriet Freeman was a person who knew both how to receive and give these simple gifts. When we were laying her to rest at the cemetery last week I could hear bird calls including the high squeal of a titmouse. I had to agree, none of us, even the birds, wanted to let go of her. And then, on some unseen signal, the whole flock took off over our heads. I’m convinced that they were Harriet’s companions on her flight to that place where God lives, our true home.