T

(jjb) — 

Since late ‘23, I have been in relationship.

With a hummingbird.

(An actual hummingbird.)

Let me explain.

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First, some facts. Hummingbirds:

—live only in the New World

—can fly in any direction, including backwards, and can hover (no other bird can do this)

—are fiercely territorial (it’s said, if hummingbirds were the size of cats, people would never leave their homes)

—have a war cry (by over-beating their wings, they can sound like a WW2 fighter plane)

—have enormous intellect and memory for their size

—are all “single mothers”

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For the spiritual, they can represent:

—messengers between the spiritual and physical world

—love, joy, beauty

—romance, passion

—spiritual growth/enlightenment

—prosperity for those it visits

—fearlessness, courageousness, and bravery

—playfulness

—a sense of wonder

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To avoid any confusion, my bird is not:

—a “sign from God”

—a coded message

—a metaphor for any relationship, past or present

—a commentary on parenting/mentoring/counseling/friendship

—a goodbye

—plenty of other things…

But a bird is never just a bird.

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(Just as I typed this, it came and checked up on me.)

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This one lives in my backyard.

About our relationship:

I sit. It flies.

I watch it. It ignores me.

Mostly.

Sometimes it buzzes my head like a kamikaze, so it knows I’m “there.”

Recently it even shat on me.

(I assume nothing personal.)

We have gotten very comfortable in each other’s presence.

It often hovers in front of me at eye level, about a foot or so away.

(I wonder if I put my finger out if it would sit on it.)

We are — as an English friend of mine used to say — “on the nod.”

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I never knew if it was a boy or a girl.

(I didn’t want to offend, so I never asked.)

Quickly I got my answer.

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One day, I noticed two needles resting on the edge of the nest.

Eventually, two tiny faces; four black, unblinking dots.

They faced the same direction, beaks parallel, eyeing mom.

They sat so still, unmoving — at first.

Over the next few days, one began to squirm.

It spun all around in the nest, practically sitting on its sibling.

It began blinking a lot, cocking its head, taking in everything.

(That one had ADHD.)

Meanwhile, the mother ceaselessly flew in patterns, continually chirping, educating by example.

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When she wasn’t doing this, she sat a branch or two away from the nest, still and watchful.

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This went on for many days.

Then — moments after I took a picture of the squirmy one standing on the edge of the nest — it flew away.

The way they fly — they seem attached to some invisible Zip line.

The second bird (the runt) flew away two days later.

I didn’t get to see: when I checked, I saw just an empty nest.

The mother now comes once a week or less — though when she does she still buzzes my head.

I miss her.

(I’m a man lonely for a bird.)

This part of my life has ended.

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Usually a story I tell offers some meaning.

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Last night, as I lay in bed, I kept trying to figure out:

—Why tell this story? —What does it mean? —What does it mean to me?

I wasn’t sure.

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So I asked myself:

—What do I know? —How do I feel?

(Mainly, I know what I know by watching what I do and I know how I feel by watching what I think.)

Some answers, shortly…

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First, let me talk about chicken.

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I had been dating H for about two years when someone I knew murdered my close friend, stabbed her to death.

H hesitated dating me. She had just ended a long, complicated relationship with a woman.

We made an instant, fine pair though — happy, giddy, entwined.

We tumbled together like socks in a dryer, stalked the streets like a Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo.

We had only the usual misunderstandings that people have when dating.

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After the murder though, I shut down emotionally.

I couldn’t admit vulnerability, couldn’t bear attachment.

I broke up with her, broke her heart.

(It would have ended in time — it was shallow love, not real love — but I wish it had ended better then.)

Our mutual friends chose sides — all hers — so I grieved alone and drank heavily.

In this one drama, the main character sleeps in a room full of empty alcohol bottles.

The room glows green from the glass.

I had the same room.

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(It was the first and last time I ever drank like that.

I needed to numb the pain, erase all thoughts.

Know that I’m a happy drunk: I laugh at everything then fall asleep.)

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Eventually I quit drinking.

Finally my head had become as clear and sparkling as a freshly washed glass bottle — my heart fully poured out.

I had dinner with H one last time.

We sat facing each other.

Suddenly she began to sob, then said

—You cut chicken beautifully.

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Two years later I dated V.

We lived together.

We’d buy groceries, come home, put them away.

I’d always buy whole chickens. It annoyed her.

With my arms around her waist from behind I’d say

—I’m going to chop your chicken, then I’d lead her to the bedroom.

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V and I lived on a continuum: we’d talk, laugh, cuddle, make love, cuddle, laugh, talk again.

All again, and again.

We accepted each other fully, charmed one another completely.

With her, I first experienced real love.

I experienced it before I could name it.

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In real love:

—you feel safe and protected

—you give each other freedom and you each feel free (if you do not let them be themselves, then who are you loving?)

—you feel seen for who you are and loved for who you are

—you reveal the goodness inside the other

—you transform their pain and nurture their peace

—you feel sure of yourself and of them

—you offer each other your joys: above all, you share your joys

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I’d never felt happier. Of course, I ruined it. I learned though:

Living is learning. Learning is loving. Loving is knowing.

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I’ve never understood when people say relationships are complicated, difficult, hurtful.

I have never experienced that, not once.

(I can’t even imagine it.)

Though I’ve dated women I didn’t like and married a woman I didn’t love — I found it all easy.

(My marriage lasted so long because I made a satisfying partner even though I never loved her.)

Relationships are my superpower.

I think I know why.

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When life crushes your bones and minces your guts — as it did mine — it makes you softer, gentler, warmer.

(If you let it.)

When you heal (you do heal) you understand everyone:

You love people because you know pain.

Pain invites love.

Pain needs love.

Love does, undoes.

Love heals.

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Now that I’ve told you all about the birds in my life, what about those questions?

I don’t need to answer them.

(you know)

Right now an enormous Monarch butterfly keeps circling me and a chameleon just ran past me, changing from lime green to cocoa brown.

(true true, all true)

I will absolutely not get into any of that though.

— D (fc)