Lemon tree full of finches

Five perch on feeder while two wait in lemon tree

  My lemon tree flutters and shimmers with life these days. House finches have discovered the nearby feeder, and they have spread the word. As they dart by the dozens from feeder to tree and back, they squawk and wrestle and chatter with delight. At least, I hope it's delight. Their friendly rivalry for a perch seems harmless enough; meanwhile, they entertain me, a rookie backyard bird watcher.
  This began a few months ago with my uninformed purchase of a wire mesh feeder at a local pet store. I noticed it when I had gone to buy dog food. Thinking about the rural area in which I live and the deck just outside my favorite room, I decided that attracting birds might provide a pleasant pastime. I also purchased random seed, came home, filled the cylinder and hung it on a pole where I could see it easily from my room. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
  When I mentioned this to one of my bird-watching friends, she said I had put the wrong food for the kind of feeder I had. "Buy thistle," she said. "The birds can't get to the seeds you bought. The mesh is too fine. You need thistle." So I bought thistle. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
  "Be patient," my friend said. "They have to find it. Once they find it, they will keep coming."
   How hard is it, I'm thinking. It's the only feeder out there.
  "Try sprinkling some on the ground to see what happens," she said.
  I sprinkled. No birds. For weeks, no birds.
 Then I went to visit another friend for help on an entirely different project. While there, she showed me her backyard, which overlooks a canyon near the coast. She had several different feeders and birdhouses. Birds swooped about and twittered happily. When I asked her secret, she sent me to a nearby store that specializes in attracting backyard birds. A sizable chunk of change later, I came home with some wild bird education, two new feeders and poles on which to hang them.
  Whether coincidental or by design, a few days later birds began to peck at the thistle on the ground where I had placed my original feeder. As if on cue, the next day a few more showed up on the new feeders filled with seed. I had no idea what kinds of birds they were, so I grabbed my camera and started snapping pictures. I e-mailed them to my informed friends, who identified them as white-crowned sparrows and house finches. Soon some mourning doves joined the group.
  Apparently they had "found" the feeders.
 I became a bit giddy about this avian food frenzy. I began to arise at daybreak to see what might be happening each morning. I marveled at the different shades of color in the male finches. I smiled at the sparrows who occasionally hopped up onto the deck. I paid close attention to see if I could discover new visitors.
   Some might accuse me of developing not just a new interest, but an obsession. I have shared multitudes of photos, and I have increased the number of feeders from three to four. I have varied the food so that a diversity of birds might get in on the action. The latest is suet, which should attract wrens and woodpeckers.
   At the advice of my newfound friends at the wild bird store, who are genuinely knowledgeable but also probably have little objection to my wallet, I have added the element of water. I found a lovely glass birdbath with a brilliant cardinal embossed in the bowl.
  The cardinal reminds me of my dear Aunt Ruth, who loved to gaze at her cherished cardinals as they visited her prize-winning garden in Toledo, Ohio. She called them "redbirds" and fed them sunflower seeds from a table in her backyard. She loved to sit by her kitchen window while sipping iced tea and watch their antics. As an adult, I learned that she often spiked her iced tea with Southern Comfort, which explains why she usually had a sweet smile on her face. I'm not likely to see actual cardinals here in Southern California, so I will enjoy this replica to remind me of my familial connections.
  Now I must go to bed. I have an early morning date.

Transcendence

  In a way, it somehow feels wrong to think that God already has begun to create good out of yesterday's chaos in Newtown, Connecticut. It somehow feels insensitive to even entertain the notion that good can emerge from something so horrific, so unspeakably cruel, as the mass shooting of 20 elementary school children and the six heroic adults who gave their lives in an attempt to protect precious young lives. Yet the efforts and expertise of first responders began to reveal the nobler side of humanity immediately, even as we watched and listened in horror as the outrageous evil unfolded.
  If nothing else, the tragedy has drawn us together. In many cases, it has brought us to our knees in prayer. It has caused us to hug our loved ones more often and to say "I love you" and "thank you".  It has turned our hearts to compassion and our minds to seeking solutions. It has leveled our humanity as we watch our leaders brush away their tears and distraught parents cling to one another in shock.
  Thus I unwittingly have given myself permission today to feel hope. It percolated within me as I listened to my church choir rehearsing the "Gloria" cantatas composed by Antonio Vivaldi and John Rutter. As the choir's rich vocal tones swelled and receded with the music's passion, as kettle drums reverberated throughout the sanctuary, as brass and strings echoed and enhanced the joyful sound, music transcended the despair we all feel. It lifted my spirit to a holy place as praise and prayer expressed in words and notes spanning centuries surrounded me.
  As I observed the individual choir members, I began to reflect on my association with them. Some have been my friends and acquaintances for more than 30 years. Some of us reared our children together. Some of us traveled together to Germany, Switzerland and Austria in 1990 to share the experience of a choral concert tour. Some I know only by name. Some I do not know even that. Some of them are unemployed. At least one is experiencing a heartbreaking marital crisis, while another is glowing with the joy and anticipation of her upcoming wedding. One has recently celebrated the anniversary of more than 60 years of marriage. Some are recovering from serious health issues. Some are caring for ailing family members, and some are struggling with issues associated with aging. Their experiences represent a microcosm of human experience everywhere. Still, in this moment, they have embraced the gift of music together. Their voices blend in hauntingly yet soothingly beautiful chants and then reach in vibrant crescendoes of "gloria" and "amen". They invoke a celebration of creation and beauty even in the midst of our national agony.
  Tonight, as I reach for the words to express my thoughts, I listen to a member of The Tenors, a popular and talented quartet,  sing "Bring Him Home" from the musical version of "Les Miserables," a masterpiece of grace and mercy. And now all four members of the group,  joined by female vocalist Natalie Grant, are losing themselves in their rendition of "Amazing Grace." This is creation. This is hope.
  If we can notice moments of grace, soak it up, infuse ourselves with it, hope will prevail. We can co-create. We can heal.