OF HUMMINGBIRDS AND "THE BIRD-ABANDONED SKIES."

 A few years back, a bunch of us from our local UCC church formed a group of older people to talk about the issues we were facing: death among them, what our last wishes were, what we wanted to tell our children, and more. But, of course, with Covid, things shrank and now there are 4 of us who Rick calls, "Death Cab For Cuties" after a 1990 rock group. Love that title.

 

 As I am nearing 77 (gasp) this winter, having survived cancer and various other not-fun things, I am deeply grateful to be here and to be able to talk about the "last things." But before we get to that, let's share what is happening outside in the natural world.

 Each Spring I note down when the hummingbirds first arrive in the hills of Western Massachusetts. Years ago it used to be May 16th, then May 12th, May 6th, and this year, May 1st. Good old climate change is pushing these little buzzers up our way earlier and earlier. I always make sugar water for them to feed from as there are few flowers out when they arrive.

 

 Then, at the end of summer, I note down the last time I see the hummingbirds at our feeder or at my flowers in the garden below the deck. No hummers on Sept. 18th, although I saw 2 on the 17th. It is such a sweet and precious thing to watch these tiny birds feeding up for the long trip down to Brazil. They remind me of how precious my own life is, and although I will not be flying down to Brazil, I shall--I believe--be flying off to the next life where I hope I will be at the Simpsons' Catholic table with wine, spaghetti, dancing, and feasting.

 At the Protestant table, everyone wore blue vests, had played golf, and were speaking in jumbled consonants with no wine or spaghetti in sight.

 At our most recent "Death Cab For Cuties" meeting (DCFC), a friend read some beautiful poems, one being by Philip Larkin, who spoke of Fall and the "bird-abandoned skies." This is the power of poetry to rope a season and our emotions into two words. Remarkable.

 So I sit on our deck watching birds to find which ones have left already. The warblers are gone (sadly diminished in years past), the grosbeaks, and possibly some hawks, although a few remain through winter. The turkey vultures are still here, doing their graceful balancing act on the wind which makes my heart soar. Bluebirds do not leave here, and we feed them all winter with meal worms and keep a water bath warm for them. Rick suggests we should have snacks and warm towels put out.

 

 This is my hope: that when my time to die comes I will set off with as much intent and courage as the hummingbirds; that I will take with me memories of a warm sun on the deck and cool breezes from the oaks trees nearby; that I won't look backwards at what was but look forward to what comes next, knowing it will be light and love-filled. Or, as one of my favorite priests once said in a Homily about Jesus reaching down to rescue the sinking Peter in the sea of Galilee, "I look forward to seeing Jesus's hand reaching down to take hold of me at the end of my life."