My Tortellini Teachers
photo by Ted Floyd, Birding Magazine
Things had come to a standstill.
Overhead, the sky was a clear azure blue; fluffy, New Mexico-like clouds hung above the grapefruit tree in this California city. The sun shone brightly on a strangely quiet morning. Not an airplane in the sky, no cars, no human voices. Only the sweet songs of the birds.
On that spring day in early March of 2020, I sat outside in bewilderment, wondering what would happen. There was a tingle of fear gripping at the throat, news reports were flooding in about the sudden deaths of many in Italy, home to Carlo’s relatives. And elsewhere. Shock, confusion and helplessness. The straining to understand. It had a name: coronavirus.
What on earth was going on?
Suddenly nothing was making sense. Should I walk over to work? Should I prepare some meals for the week? What will happen to the water? Was my business going to survive? Would any of us survive?
Tiny little birds we nicknamed tortellini were sprightly dashing back and forth. I glanced up, and dangling ever so close to my face was a soft nest hanging off a tree branch. How had i casually walked by this amazing architectural creation, day after day, and only now noticed it? What else have I missed? Did it take a pandemic to get me to slow down, to stop, to pay attention?
Shortly before the pandemic hit, I remember some friends were having a conversation along these lines: “We are all moving so fast”. “The pace of the world is unsustainable”. “The Earth is crying out”. “Everyone seems so exhausted”. “How can we shift away from this grind culture that drives us so hard”? “How can we dismantle the structures of racism”? ‘What will it take for the collective to wake up”?
All good questions.
Would the pandemic give us the pause, the “re-set” we needed? Would it make us kinder, less selfish people, had it in a strange way, come with messages for us? When a person comes near their own death, often they awaken to transformation. Reconciliation can happen. Love can deepen. Sometimes we are blessed to witness it. So, when an entire world population comes near death, is the same kind of transformation still possible?
It is March 2022. A terrible war has now been inflicted on our planet by a mad man. Today, once again the tortellini dart back and forth on the grapefruit tree. This year I have been eagerly listening for them, awaiting the appearance of a nest. I perch with binoculars so as not to disturb. I watch, and wait.
Sure as the sun comes up, I see the nest emerging, they are diligently crafting it underneath branches of leaves, well-hidden. They are astonishing and agile, and with only tiny beaks they make their soft, pouch-like nest of tiny threads and feathers, filaments, plant fibers, perhaps some of my curly hairs. I watch with amazement, wanting to sit here forever.
This species Psaltriparus minimus has a behavior apparently unique among birds: once the pair breeds and the eggs are deposited in the bottom of the nest, various unrelated birds, mostly male, come and tend the nest: feeding and caring for the young, housekeeping, guarding, protecting the nest. A true collective, a community of caregivers.
Maybe, if we watch and listen, we can learn from them.
Mary Busby, March 14, 2022
