little bird, life and death

 In my corner of the world, in the beginning moments of the day, the sun starts to sort of wake up, and rub the sleep out of its eyes. Our star then starts to stumble around in the east as if in search of a pair of clean pants to wear, then finally after about an hour of early morning struggle it then shows it face over the crest of the Rocky mountains. It is under the shadow of these mountains that I first learned what death was. 

Though the brisk early morning spring air bit my cheeks, on a spring morning in my 7th year, I departed from the stone house my family called home. Into the gray light of the early morning started down the road which my family simply called the hill.  School is at the bottom and like water I simply flow down towards the building almost as if unseen rocks or roots decided for me which way to go, and the force of gravity pulled me on. 

The first sign of life that morning came from the trill of a bird song in a very gargantuan tree above me. As I apathetically glanced towards it, a blood-red blur zoomed past me and landed on a much smaller aspen tree near me. The first bit of color I seemed to be able to see was the rouge colored feathers of the mother Robin's breast as she sang on a branch near me.

This is a sight I had seen a million times, but this morning the familiar sight was accompanied by an extraneous one. A little nest rested on the very same branch the robin was on. This isn't the first time I have seen a nest.

 Throughout my life I often recall my earliest actual memory of a bird's nest. A bird had built her nest into our cold grey cinder block wall and as a very young child I recall climbing up onto our ‘78 skyblue ford pickups hood, because it was always parked in front of this wall. And peering 

down into the gaping mouths of 6 or seven little fledglings. 

So as i watched the nest on the aspen tree, the mother suddenly departed again. I was eager for a new opportunity to see the miracle of life. So  I climbed up the tree, the anticipation was broken momentarily by the absence of cries for mother. But I was on a mission and I was determined to complete it. So I continued to climb, I was only mildly concerned about an angry mother bird clawing my eyes out to protect her nest. But my concern washed away from me as I finally climbed above the nest and saw one little blue egg. Smaller than my thumbnail and absolutely magical. 

I was captivated by this little blue egg, I had never seen a blue egg which I did not make that way. And so small. It looked like candy I would have received on easter. I understood on an unspoken level that inside that egg was a baby bird. Or at least the beginnings of one. And my arrogant human brain did not trust a wild bird who had only moments ago abandoned this miracle from heaven to care for it and raise it for its own.

So I took it, to my great eternal shame, believing that I would be a suitable mother. I scooped it into the palm of my hand and began to climb down the tree. Sometime before i reached the bottom i had unknowingly crushed the egg, ever so slightly, because when i took it out to check on it. I was distraught to discover a little bit of blood trickling out of the shell. 

Being only a few 100 yards away from the school I rushed the little egg into my teacher and pleaded with her to help me. I knew the other class had an incubator and thought if we could hatch the thing it would heal and be my eternal friend. 

I placed a burden on my teacher that day which I now appreciate. She had to explain to me for the first time in my life, what death was. I intimately understood death. I wept bitterly as she helped me inter the creature into the ground outside, and she gave me permission to run home and explain to my parents what happened. 

Four generations of bird songs were lost by my hand. And that number increases every five years. This realization has always instilled me with a sense that I have a responsibility to fill the world with greater than, or equal, goodness of a birds song, and I have strived to do so ever sense.

Back to Life as Usual

As I ended my weekend and with it the fantasy of being the head gardener of a lemon orchard, I set about my normal routines, with one major change on my mind. My lemon trees.

In between my families Father’s Day tribute BBQ, and a few failed rounds of pickle ball with my siblings and their kids, I learned that my tree is a Meyer improved dwarf lemon tree. According to citrus.com;

“Dwarf Meyer lemon trees are shrub-like, but they can be pruned and made to look like a tree. The beautiful blossoms of this lemon tree are white and delightfully fragrant much like blended citrus with jasmine. The fruit is sweeter, has less acidic flavor & reduced bitterness compared to Lisbon or Eureka lemons.”so I learned that my little guy would grow to be a pretty little thing.

I also learned that my trees forebearers traveled here from their native China in 1908 at the hands of a man named Frank N Meyer. But grandpa lemon tree was discovered to be a symptomless carrier of the Tristeza Virus which was deadly for other citrus trees, through it all the forefathers of my citrus friend prevailed, because while many were destroyed, the strain of Meyer Lemon trees found to be disease free avoided oblivion. And from that stem, which was carefully guarded by the University of California, my lemon tree was born.

I started to worry about pollination, who could blame me, nobody wants to talk to their one year old about the birds and the bees and the minutia of reproduction. plus the Apricot tree in the front yard is kind of a slut. I learned it was part of a family of Self Pollinating trees. so I don’t really have to have that conversation; the process of hand pollination requires me violating my trees blossoms by brushing them the stamen of one blossom and rubbing pollen on the pistol of another. Not prepared for that. 

What I learned about as I started to worry about a possible economic shutdown in my state, was that the minuscule details of plant care are soothing. While I have no intention of making this the center of my Zen garden, I would like to use the care and cultivation of this tree to take my mind off my obsessive thoughts so that as I prune the stems off the tree to help it focus on growth, I can shed my mind of the toxic thoughts that permeate my mind. And although it will be larger than any bonsai tree, it already is, it will serve the same purpose as the Bonsai, it already has.

As I transfer the sapling from its current pot into a pot full of a nutrient dense and loamy soil that will keep the root network moist without drowning it, maybe I can find a way to do what is right no matter how hard it is, while not suffocating my spirit with all the bile and hatred in the world.

 this is the pot that i decided my little lemon buddy will spend the summer in, with some treated potting soil that should help keep the root network moist, but not drowning. and some fruit and veggie fertilizer. i drilled holes in the "self watering" tray of the new pot, because everything i have read says that the tree needs to be able to drain off extra water.

When I come home weary from the physical and emotional strains of my daily life. I can find strength in caring for another living thing. And with it I can hopefully bring some beauty into this world.

as I said goodbye to siblings and nieces and nephews, I hadn’t seen in months due to “social distancing “guidelines, I made plans to find my tree a humble terracotta pot and get some citrus specific soil and fertilizer. I searched the web for guides on pruning and realized that we can worry about so much, and control so little, but in the end all we can do is take focus on making a positive impact on the part of our lives we can control.

Edit 7/5/2020 sorry I didn’t finish this thought in my original post.