I was relaxing on the hammock the other day. I guess I was assessing our lives. My wife’s and mine. I had a cold drink in my hand, the sun was setting, and I was feeling intimate with my surroundings. It’s a piece of property we have worked closely with for over a decade.
Sometimes I feel fortunate and wonder what I ever did to deserve all this. Other times I don’t fully understand how we have survived what life has thrown our way. Often, when I’m alone, I try to concentrate on the positive and do a mental inventory of everything I’m grateful for. The list is substantial. That’s what I was doing this late afternoon.
The day was slowly trading places with the evening and the songs of birds were being replaced with the calls of crickets. Everything was peaceful, and I felt my spirit resting in a place of gratitude. But I was taken off guard with a sudden and overwhelming feeling that I was very far from home. I felt panicked, like I needed to return somewhere and take care of unfinished business.
I had a home once, that I loved. Maybe even more than the home I have now. But I was just a boy and had earned nothing. Of course, that’s not entirely true. I had earned the respect and friendship of an old man. He was ten years old when the slaughter at Wounded Knee took place, and ninety-one years old when I met him. A “Holy man” in the truest sense of the definition. Although that wasn’t a claim he ever made, it was obvious to anyone that spent time with him. He was awarded the “Order of Canada Medal” for his work in ornithology. He wrote a book called “I live with Birds.” and articles for the National Geographic. He understood that animals had emotions, could feel love and loss at a time when science scoffed at the very notion. He had a small home in the woods surrounded by large aviaries. It was a bird sanctuary.
People sent him injured and rare birds from all over North America. He set the hollow bones of broken wings and legs, determined the exact formula to be fed to any number of baby birds, raised them up, or healed them, and released them into the wild to live as they were meant to live. All the while, showing the same level of care and respect to the life that now rested in his hands, be it sparrow or eagle.
Every day I made my way across the meadow, over the stream and through the woods to his home. Every day he taught me something new. I met him when I was eleven years old and had to leave him when I was fifteen.
Four decades later, I sometimes awake from the same dream. All the birds are dead. I wasn’t there to feed them. It wasn’t the place. It was him. He was my home.
My home now is where my wife is. Our children are adults, living too far away. My thoughts drifted to them and our own intimate tribe... our family. What a gift it was to have them as children, all to ourselves. We were our home then. A time so intense and wonderful. It passed too quickly, was over too soon. I realized then what I was feeling. I was very far from “that home.” My kids will never be children again, and I... will never again be a young man. But I can still open a door and enter into a room where I hear my kids say.... “Dad’s home!” I still hear them as they come thundering up the stairs to greet me, still feel them in my arms as we roll around on the floor, feel their hair in my face as they kiss me, hear their laughter when I tickle them and feel their weight on my back as they ride the “bucking bronco.”
I guess there is no “unfinished business.” If we are very fortunate, we will have had several “homes” in our lifetimes. Each one cradled in the arms of our minds and our hearts. Each one changing us from one person into someone else. Wiser, stronger, fuller..... better.
Thanks for the encouragement Sandy.
I look forward to hearing more from you! We so need to hear the voices of men who care and how they see the world.