"Fledging."
Lessons from nature.
12 APRIL—I awoke last week to find a bird outside my bedroom door. For those wondering, I live in a hacienda-style house where every room opens onto an outdoor courtyard. Even so, it was a startling sight.
Still dark outside, the bird was asleep and pressed into the shadows at the base of the wall. As dawn broke it stirred and awakened, startled to find another large animal—me—looming nearby. Desperate to get away, the bird hobbled awkwardly toward the courtyard where it tumbled off the step onto the flagstone.
Thinking at first that it might be injured, I watched from a distance. Quickly enough I could see that the bird was too young to fly, its flight feathers had not yet developed. My heart dropped. It was fledging and had fallen—too early I feared—from a nest in the tree overhead. The bird wouldn’t survive long without its parents.
I kept a close watch throughout the day, setting out a saucer of water and sprinkling bread crumbs nearby, even knowing the offerings would likely be ignored.
The bird rested for much of the day in a shadowed corner of a low stone wall. But by late afternoon it was out of the shadows and perched on top, perky and apparently thriving. It teetered about clumsily for some minutes then approached the edge and launched itself into the air, tumbling onto the paving stones below. Undaunted it flapped back up the steps and repeated the process. It certainly had guts. By nightfall the tiny thing was clearly holding her own. She settled down in a small woodpile that served as a surrogate nest for that night and the next, and in which she was all but invisible.
In mid-morning momma showed up at the woodpile with breakfast—or possibly papa, as both parents take turns with feeding. It was then that I discovered our visitor was a young White-winged dove and also why she was doing so well.
When exploring the courtyard later in the day she managed to flap herself to a perch on a large pot that was about three feet off the ground. From there she tried repeatedly to reach a protrusion on the wall several feet higher. It was a marvel to watch as she vigorously flapped her wings, beating her downy breast against the brick wall, trying to fly. As on the previous day, she spent long spells resting, gathering strength, and allowing her body the time it needed to undergo its mysterious avian transformation.
In the afternoon of her third day—after a second night in the woodpile and where she again spent the morning resting—she went on a long walk about investigating the courtyard while I carried on elsewhere in the house. By late afternoon when I again checked on her she had disappeared. I peered closely at the woodpile and not finding her searched the courtyard. It was empty. Had a hawk swept in and carried her off? My heart was heavy as I headed inside to make dinner.
Standing at the kitchen sink I watched with surprise as one of the parents flew into the courtyard and landed near a bougainvillea. The adult dove was just out of view and when it flew off a few minutes later I went out and took a closer look at the vine. Sure enough there she was, perched on a branch four feet up the wall.
And there she stayed for two more nights. On the fifth morning, with momma refusing to feed her in the courtyard, the young dove flapped and fluttered her way up the vine to the top of the ten foot wall where she was rewarded with breakfast. And what a sight that was. She clamped her beak tightly around her mother’s, held onto her parent’s neck with small talons, and flapped madly to stay attached as mom regurgitated contents from her own stomach. Even during feeding the baby bird was forced to use and strengthen her still developing wings.
Fledging is an ordinary event. And yet, watching the life and death drama unfold I was moved by the exquisite balance between determination, effort, and stillness. For the first time I could see the wisdom inherent in not doing—in resting, withdrawing, and waiting. Throughout there was no failure there was only trying, each attempt being its own success. With each effort she became stronger, more agile, and her problem solving abilities improved until she finally hit the perfect note.
For five days I watched as a tiny vulnerable bird made her environment work for her, using all that was at her disposal. It was not a place of her choosing and yet she adapted. She used the courtyard and what was in it to advance her purpose—which was to free herself.
That is all any of us can do.
And yet, as with the bird, you cannot do it alone.
This is brilliantly expressed, those things in life, those passages, we share with other creatures, and what we can learn from them, what we can see of ourselves in them. P.L. h
What a beautiful account and reflection! <3 I could see the fledging dove not failing but succeeding with every attempt, as we do in our own lives. Thank you!