Sundays at Barrett’s Retreat

Posted by: Barrett on Aug 5 2012, 12:35 pm in , ,

  Sunny, breezy, and bouffant clouds dot the New Mexico sky. The first Sunday morning in August. The first week of August doesn’t hold any particular significance for me and yet the fact that it’s August already stuns me. What happened to June and July? I honestly try not to miss things, especially changes that go on around me. (That’s important, as one gets older, I’m told.)     

Since I live in the middle of the desert with virtually no obstructed views, small movements and subtle changes in the landscape usually catch my attention. Sometimes they’re a cause for celebration—like a new wildflower growing in the rutted dirt of the access road; sometimes a cause for concern—a junior rattlesnake stretching out in the sun. Mostly I enjoy the way the light and shadow change the mountains.

In honor of time slipping away from me, I decided to offer a little allegory I wrote a while back.

 

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I was surprised to see the wounded bird on the edge of my deck. She hadn’t struck the window; at least I didn’t think so. I watched for few minutes and although she didn’t move, her eyes never left me.
Her raggedy feathers mauled as though a larger predator had carelessly dropped her. One wing hung at an awkward angle.

I approached tentatively speaking softly. Better judgment told me to leave her alone. Another voice urge to me to try   to provide comfort. Very gently, I lifted her up in my hand—she accepted my help. 

A prepared small box filled with a towel and shredded paper became her safe house.  Over time, she trusted me to bring food and water. She even allowed me to feed her tiny amounts. But her open mouth was silent.

Several times a day and even through the night I got up to care for the wounded bird.
My routine changed to include my new charge.
Then one day she was standing on both legs. She hopped about her enclosure and began to eat in her own. The feathers gradually smoothed and shimmered. The wing straightened.

Eventually she found her voice and sang sweetly in the morning. She allowed me to carry her around perched on my finger. Her song was magical and her recovery heartening.
She would fly around the house but always return to her safe place.
One day, I opened the patio door and showed her the world. She chirped and cocked her head and then was gone.
She struggled at first and then I nodded solemnly as she took off and soared.

Happy Sunday!

 

 

 

 

 

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