hummingbird requiem

Our rather fowl-depleted back garden; 5 March 2012.

Something is missing from this photograph; the feeder is gone.  No, it didn't fall onto the patio, although my guilt would be assuaged if that was the case.  The hummingbird feeder is in the garage garbage can, nestled between dryer fluff and hoover remnants, topped with last year's cheap gardening gloves.  I put it there yesterday after two weeks of dithering.  Finally I had to admit I'd failed, and placed that glass and red plastic hummingbird feeder in the rubbish bin.  Coated with a disgusting layer of mold on the bottom of the glass and within the spouts, I just couldn't look at it anymore. (Heads-up; a long, picture-filled post with a small note to the writing at the very end.)

July 2010; Primo, keeping watch on his territory.  Note the mini-blinds; I snapped this at my desk.

It's what I've seen for the last eighteen months right outside my work window; the hummingbirds arrived in summer of 2010, finding sustenance in a flowering basket.  The first one, who I called Primo, then perched on the chains of the ivy basket not three feet from my window.  I would glance up, see that minute creature resting, wondering what it meant.  Why had that hummingbird found me?

January 2010; Flighty never perched, just fluttered and ate.

Comic relief mostly.  Bob and I bought a feeder in San Francisco in September, 2010, and from then on we were inundated with the adventures of a few tiny but powerful birds, offering entertainment and noveling fodder; they are featured in A Slider, Tumbling, and how many times have I noted their antics and pictures in this blog and another one so named for their permanent nature in our backyard, in our lives.  I've fought mold in the feeder before, but never to this degree.  I filled it when we left to see Thea last month, but it wasn't quite empty when we returned.  Then I had a cold, felt cruddy, watching as they drained it, fully aware if I didn't clean it, something would attack.  Not a hummingbird assault, but an insidious, stealthy threat.  I noted it, sighed heavily, did nothing.  I knew it was bad, that I'd be in for a time.  Instead of rinsing with hot water or even vinegar, a bleach solution would be necessary, and a good scrubbing out.  But the bottle's spout is small, hard to negotiate.  I even looked for a replacement feeder, but found nothing suitable.  Either they were cheap plastic or had no perches or were too big.  Again I watched the birds flit, but their visits were sporadic.  They knew this backyard as their own, but the food source had dried up.

October 2010; Primo guarding his territory, sitting on the tomato cage around Bob's grape.

Now it's gone.  I miss them, haven't pulled up my window's blinds as usual, nothing magical to see.  I've been captivated by getting another book out, more edits than I can say.  But this morning that eye-catching red feeder is gone, I got rid of it late yesterday afternoon.  Today I feel its absence, a change having occurred.  I want to get a new one, but in doing so, I accept what I didn't do before; get off my back end and get that feeder cleaned when I should have.

Primo, I think, and Red, who arrived Spring 2011.

I can't think of a single writing metaphor that would describe my feelings.  They are only birds and I know they have plenty of other yards to invade.  They were an invasion, nothing that I asked for, but oh how I loved them, Primo and Flighty, then Red; a few others who flitted in and out, swooping and diving, acting like Klingons!  They thought this was their property, and we were just lucky enough to get a toehold.  They would buzz the back door, hovering as if small children.

Primo, summer 2011, sitting on a spider plant running not far from the feeder.  They are so possessive!

But they were only hummingbirds.

Red and Primo, or someone else, battling over the feeder.  I love how the one cranes his neck, as if to say what do you think you're doing here?  My house buddy, take a hike!

I'd never seen a hummingbird until summer of 2010.  Then they were all I knew, precious and thumb-sized, fleeting and present.  They never went away, not in winter or spring or summer or autumn.  They buzzed the patio when I cut Bob's hair as if protesting our presence.  They chased each other under the awning, occasionally crashing into the window or glass back door, and not quietly.  Speed made up for size, appetites voracious.  They appeared on a whim, and now are gone.

Close-up of an empty space, the nail looking forlorn.  5 March 2012.

Maybe there is a metaphor here after all; my writing has been like the hummingbirds, coming out of nowhere, entwined into my soul like nothing I've known except for those I love.  It's like an aspect of my faith, so deeply within me, and now, well, now it has a life of its own.  Blogs and a website, not to mention publication.  But I can't imagine it would slip away like the feeder has; mold can't contaminate my writing.  I'm well-protected, no slimy invader can swirl into my head.  I suppose only something like dementia or broken hands could be that detrimental.  Maybe that's why I work so diligently, because one never knows when rot will take over.  Yes, I didn't clean the feeder, it's my fault, I fully accept responsibility.  But as I trust God to provide me with motivation and plots (and boy, he's taken care of those without fail), I also know he looks after the birds of the air (Luke 12:6,7).  So those hummingbirds are fine, giving someone else a thrill.  And maybe, one of these days, I'll find an adequate replacement feeder.  Be assured when that happens, an entire post will emerge, perhaps a novel.  Blog and novel fodder lurks around every corner, you never know where they will strike next.