“Those little nimble musicians of the air, that warble forth their curious ditties, with which nature hath furnished them to the shame of art.”

– Izaak Walton

A couple of days ago, I asked you to take a philosophical journey with me and to consider how the smallest of actions can affect the entire inter-connected universe — how the movement of a butterfly wing in one location might grow to spawn tornadoes in another (Butterflies and Flowers).  I’ve been thinking about those ideas and wondering whether I could bring them out of the philosophical and find an example in my day-to-day physical world.  That was a challenge, until I thought of the birds.  When I was a child, Alfred Hitchcock made his famous movie about a bird takeover; and I must confess that I carried a bit of bird anxiety after following his thoughts about my feathered friends to the dark side of human behavior.  Thankfully, birds do not wage war, and I can take my morning walks without wearing protective gear; but it was only a few years ago that I decided to shorten the distance between myself and the birds so that I could get to know them better.

I spoke in the other article about the way that each of us emits energy, simply by being alive.  Other creatures do this, too; and I could sense as I began to move closer to my bird friends that they felt their own energy disturbed by mine.  When I came too close, they would fly away.  I suppose the story might end right there, but I’m usually not content with just accepting that things are the way they are and beyond potential for change.  I began paying attention to just how close I could move to a bird before he would take flight; and I would stop moving toward him when I reached that limit.  There I would stand, as still as a stone, and croon softly to Mr. Robin or Mr. Cardinal in the same voice I used to soothe my babies when they were sick or hurt or afraid.  ”Well, look at you, Mr. Cardinal!  You certainly do look fine and red and handsome today!  Have you come looking for food?  Is that your wife calling to you from your nest in the holly tree?  You must be very proud of that new family of yours.”  I would hold my ground and speak in soothing tones and not move a muscle.

I think my crooning may have served to calm me as well, because the curious thing that happened was this:  the more I was still and the more I contained my excitement at coexisting with my bird companions, the closer they would come.  I thought about this one day when I was “being” with a robin and he suddenly flew straight toward me.  Nearly grazing my head, he took a spot on the branch of the apple tree as I stood below.  I could have reached out my hand and touched his feathers, and it took all my will power to resist such a bold move.  I thought about my energy field and that of the robin.  I could actually feel him fly past me, although we never really touched.  Maybe the secret to being allowed into the birds’ space is to make my own energy small enough that it doesn’t intrude on theirs.

On my daily forays into the yard or the garden, I would think about this; and I would visualize the energy generated by my beating heart radiating from my chest as I moved through the air.  I would think of containing that energy so that it occupied the smallest space possible.  I swear I could feel my heart rate slow.  A feeling of calmness would overtake me — the sort of dreamy, relaxed feeling I associate with drifting between waking and sleeping.  It would feel as though my feet barely bent the blades of grass beneath them as I floated closer and closer to the birds.  I became sensitive to their limits and managed to learn how to stop before I disturbed them.  They would cock their heads, first one way and then another, and we would see each other more clearly than we could when the distance between us had been greater.

When I spoke of the butterflies, I concluded that we should be careful about the kind of energy we contribute to the universe.  We are all connected; and we must assume that our actions impact more that just the space we inhabit at a given moment.  Becoming acquainted with the birds has taught me that beyond mere philosophical meanderings, our experiences in the physical world support that this is true.  What is more exciting, though, is learning that we do have control — not only over what we do, but how we do it.  It is important that we don’t willfully disrupt the balance of our universe by intentionally destructive acts; but it also is important to pay attention to the energy we bring that can go beyond not destroying and enter the realm of building stronger connections.  It takes time and patience, but the birds have taught me that it can be done.  From them I have learned the true meaning of tranquility.