Today the bluebirds came back.

Four of them swooped beneath the trees in the backyard, looking for worms.

Their cerulean blue wings were otherworldly and a startling contrast to the browns and oranges of the leaves in the rest of the yard. I like to think they were our own baby hatchlings from last summer, come to check in.

But they were gone in a moment, off to fairer fields.

My son also came by to visit in the backyard too, and like the bluebirds, it was a brief, but sweet, sighting.

And now, I cling to the tiny details: his newly long hair, his crinkly smile. In bed tonight my husband and I will dissect every morsel, like birdseed in our craws – did he say what he’s writing right now? Did he mention travel? Did he tell us when he’d be back?

Little crumbs, oh how we live off of them.

And I guess it will have to be enough, for now.

the small things become big things. I savor every contact.

I want to believe that I am appreciating life even more these days – the small things become big things. I savor every contact.

If this pandemic has taught me one thing it is this: I cannot control the larger forces that dictate the health of the world, but I can take things as they come.

We’re only here for a little while, and our mouthfuls have always been basically parting tastes of the gifts we will leave behind.

And for my chickens too. It occurs to me that they already know the truth of the crumbs – they hunt and peck for each tiny grain one morsel at a time. They realize that they can handle only one bite, not the whole yard.

A lesson in that.

Dale Chihuly, glass sculpture

These crisp fall mornings bring a sharp clarity to memory.

My daughter is about 4, and she is playing in the backyard of our old house. The trees are mostly bare, the leaves gone brown. They lie in damp mounds around the yard and we scuff our feet through them.

She is in love with the pecan tree, or rather, the fruit that falls from it. The nuts lie huddled in nests in the grass, partially hidden around the fence line. They have striped shells, like tiny rodents, oval and hard.

Her little baby teeth can crack the shells, and so she does. Bits of pecan splinter away from the innards. She can never wait for me to crack a nut properly, her small pink tongue probes the meat before I can grab it away.

Her cheeks are pink, her skin a perfect cream, they are a palette they will never be again.

Her cheeks are pink, her skin a perfect cream, they are a palette they will never be again.

Her eyes so bright, her face clear of any emotion, except maybe a simple, lazy contentment.

I imagine that my child is a bit like the pecan itself, a soft, symmetrical outer shell with dark, yet tender insides. Curious, complex, at times tricky to access, but oh, so worth the effort.

But my daughter’s carapace was not fully hardened and tough back then, time alone would take care of that.

Anyway, I now see that we took those trees for granted. We thought just about every family had pecans like ours. That every yard was home to them.

In our new yard there are lovely trees, a poplar, several pin oaks and even an ancient mulberry that might offer up fruit for jam, if I weren’t so lazy.

But no pecan tree.

And this time of year, I think of my daughter and remember her love of nature – bugs, kittens, butterflies. And her relationship with the special tree that surrendered its seasonal gifts to her.

And, as I am thankful for the memory of that old nut tree, I am filled with gratitude for that long ago child.

I wait.

I have done my part.

I have plumped these girls up with special feed with added nutrients. Lots of good grains and herbs and mealworms and healthy fruit and veggie snacks.

They have basked in the vitamin D rich sunshine in the afternoons. I’ve even added scented lavender to their dust bath.

But these freeloaders haven’t given up a single egg. They need to pay the rent.

To me, the idea of an egg is a promise of a delectable inner richness, a fertile little bundle of creative ingenuity.

Something complete within itself. Something unique, self-contained, even elegant.

But, in reality, an egg is simply a vulnerable, fragile, inexpensive and throwaway thing, to most people.

In my research on chickens, I learned recently that when an egg is being laid, as it exits the hen, it is briefly coated in an invisible substance called bloom. The bloom seals the egg’s pores to protect the thin shell from bacteria and germs.

I like this idea, this way that nature contrives to send its most precious commodity out into the world with a built in safety seal.

The ordinary egg, but crafted with an almost magical elixir.

During this pandemic, I’d sure like to have some of that stuff – a little reassurance of protection. But a mask will have to do.

Our bodies are vulnerable to disease. Even so, I think of how perfect they still are. And how most of the time we are able to fend off as much as we do.

Sort of like a chicken egg, we have these permeable pores and scratches and even open cuts, where life reaches in. And nothing is certain. To live in these bodies we have to recognize our weaknesses yet stay confident in our strengths.

And so I try to come to terms with these feelings of ambiguous loss during this pandemic situation, knowing that there is no clear resolution to the problem.

Like the fact that I haven’t seen my daughter in 9 months.

the pores and cracks are also where the light comes in

Experts say I should grieve the losses of everyday life: being with family, friends, getting out into the world, hugging, touching.

And I have read that I should embrace the “both-and” way of thinking: that is, the situation is terrible, but it is also doable. Or, this situation is crazy, but I am not.

I should maybe lower my expectations a bit, and adjust to things being graded with a C – just okay, but good enough. Band-aids.

And maybe not be completely satisfied right now, but know that there are still simple joys that can fulfill, even heal me.

For me that is writing this blog. It is not great literature and I often don’t have anything at all to write about, but that’s okay.

I mean, chickens?

But still, it’s the writing part that brings me back to center.

To where I can feel more myself, and even a bit stronger.

Life is not perfect, my skin is sensitive, I get sick, I like to complain. But the pores and the cracks are also where the light comes in, as they say – where I am allowed the rare glimpses of wholeness, tenacity, even grit.

Anyway, I’ve had a long day today and my “surge” capacity is dimming – I’m sure you feel the same.

But I’m gonna keep on trying to write, trying to release some dopamine, and to attempt to feel like a competent human.

And to stay safe, not perfectly intact, but healthy. Healthy in the way of “both-and” – both grieving and coping patiently, in the same breath, and maybe even managing to be hopeful, every now and then.

Oh, and waiting for eggs.

In the morning, even before my cup of coffee, I palm the three tiny white pills and toss them back with a gulp of orange juice.

They’re like my chickens’ daily scratch feed – chock full of essential ingredients, but more than anything, for me, they are a dollop of hope. My antidepressants.

In a way, I see them as a power boost, it’s not that I’m sick, I am the furthest thing from it – I am healthy.

Yet my days without these micro-ingredients are unmanageable.

As the years have gone by, I have grown into the basic awareness that having a mental illness is not a weakness, it is a strength.

Of sorts, because it is not something a lot of people can see, or understand.

For me, it is who I am, wild, creative, emotional, sensitive – in touch, more of the real me.

And I know that my body is whole, even the days I feel messed up and broken.

Lately there is a lot of talk in the media about “fighting” COVID19 and being “strong” in the face of this illness.

This is wrong-headed thinking.

The metaphor of disease as an enemy or a weakness that can be conquered by positivity is magical thinking.

I do not believe that we have that kind of power. There is no mind over matter.

Having an illness is actually a part of being whole.

This is what I think.

We’re only here for a little while, and not because of anything we have done, necessarily, but because we are loved.

I feel the need to say this because it is sad that there are so many people fighting all kinds of illness out there, and they are being told to just have a positive attitude, rise up, fight the battle.

As if our bodies were battlegrounds.

As if things weren’t hard enough.

I know about those days where just getting up with the black heaviness pressing down on my body, is my own personal success.

And often even our best efforts will disappoint.

But it’s not because we haven’t tried hard enough, or been more positive, or we haven’t fought the good fight.

Some of us will get COVID19 and for no apparent reason, will die. While others, less healthy, will survive.

So anyway, with these sobering thoughts and coffee mug in hand, I walk out to spend time with the gals.

There is a light rain falling, and I see my three fluffy girls huddled underneath the coop. They manage to stand and stretch their scaly legs and bustle over to the feeder.

It will be a cloistered day for them, no free ranging in the yard.

I can’t say why exactly, but these silly birds distract me in the most meditative kind of way. Watching them, I feel close to these creatures who are not human-like at all, but are rather a link to a shared, ancient past.

And now, as domesticated critters, they depend on me for everything. And, like them, I too am a dependent creature: my warm home, my sustenance, yes, my drugs. These things I need. These things keep me here on this spinning planet, to greet another morning.

Another kaffeklatsch with my girls, time to cluck and play and to remember that we’re only here for a little while, and not because of how hard we have fought, or anything we have done, necessarily, but because, in some way, we are loved.

And we are whole.

I want to love my chickens, I really do. They are so funny and sweet. But they are so very shy and stand-offish.

They tease me with their little pecks at my shoelaces, and occasionally one will jump onto my lap for a brief spell. But soon they scoot off and scuttle away from my hands.

I simply want to hold them to my chest and win them over with my maternal instincts.

But by and large, they are not cuddlesome. They don’t want to snuggle.

When I reach for them they huff and SQUAWK and run away.

And so I must observe them quietly, appreciate them from a distance. Like the soccer mom I used to be, I must hold back, and not rush in to hug my son after the game.

Lately, I think loving my chickens is a bit like loving my grown up children.

They have both left the nest, independent adults now – out from under my wing and away from my beady little eye.

we relish the sweetness, savor the transitory

Mothering has always been a story of letting go. Even back then when they were small, I understood that there was a shelf life on those childhood snuggles. I always knew the time for wide-open intimacy was finite.

So for now I leave my lap empty, but ready, my arms open for hugs. Waiting for a smile, an embrace, a big kiss if I’m lucky. A visit in the backyard with my son, a Face Time with my daughter. They are thin substitutes, but I’ll take them.

I think it’s just life for all of us these days.

We monitor the distance between our bodies, and try to make up the difference in our hearts – we squeeze a little tighter, hold on a beat longer. We relish the sweetness, savor the transitory.

And we imagine the fullness of a love that transcends the body – is that possible?

A place where memory and imagination must fill in the blanks.

And I wonder: How much of love is in the intention rather than the actuality?