There is a heaviness to today. I know spring’s renewal lies just ahead. But today we have a foot of fresh, heavy snow covering the trail Crosby and I had been constructing through the woods. Yesterday’s vibrancy is muffled under this silent, white sea.
Heaviness. It’s more than the snow. It’s Ukraine. It’s the Boulder fire. It’s grandparents in the hospital. It’s friends who are sick. Friends who are heartbroken. Friends of friends who are dying too young.
When we found the dead pygmy nuthatch two days ago, before the snow, it seemed a moment to actually do something in the midst of this heaviness. So, beside the winding trail we were building and under the dappled light of pines, Crosby and I dug a hole. Not a deep hole. I’ve buried a red-tailed hawk before. That was a big hole. But pygmy nuthatches are tiny. Best measured in centimeters (ten) and grams (also ten). His body in my hand gave only the finest sensation of weight. This was no hawk.
The nuthatch fit in my palm like the Doug fir pinecones we had been moving in our trail work. His body the exact size of the vacancy in my closed fist. He was dead. But there was something about his body that felt alive in my palm—some outstanding energy of life that had once been. This was different from holding a rock.
We dug a small hole and spoke reminiscent words about our companion. How maybe he had enjoyed the birdseed from our feeder. How his feet were supersized for such a small body, his sharp claws the perfect aid to his bark-climbing adventures. How he would no longer fly but that he, we imagined, had lived a full life.
We spoke these sentiments to this lifeless feathered body and to each other. Crosby is two years old. This was his first interface with death.
I placed the bird in the hole dug for him. We covered him with some grass, then soil, and finally those dull rocks.
“He’s dead. He can’t fly.”
“Yes, Crosby. He’s dead.”
I know this nuthatch—his life, his death, his burial—had nothing to do with me. Our lives were stitched together on this mountainside home of ponderosa and Doug fir. But his death at the base of a giant pine, us laying him to rest, that pile of rocks to mark his grave: I made it all about me.
As I write this, I wonder if I should have left him to be where he first fell, camouflaged in the pinecone litter. Here, a fox or raven may have found him, themselves renewed by his flesh. Would this have been a better honor to him and to this forest?
I don’t mean to over-analyze the life and death of a single bird. But I’ll tell you: this bird gave me an opportunity I had been desperately needing. An opportunity to do something. A chance to viscerally engage in the tragedies of this moment, no matter how contrived.
Before I found the nuthatch, I had decided to do something else. Beginning last week, I’ve been donating all proceeds from sales of my original art and art prints to the Ukrainian Red Cross. That’s every dollar spent on my art going straight to help families experiencing senseless violence and death. If, like me, you’ve been seeking ways to do something, let’s do it together.
Thank you to those who have already helped, either through art purchases or your own efforts. May spring bring life and renewal across the world. I’m glad to be in this together with you.