Runner Insight

Chickadee

It was an early March day, and we were returning from a nice long walk in one of our favorite parks.  To get to this park on foot requires that we walk along a busy street on the bike and pedestrian path. In fact it’s the same path I run on all the time.  But it is along a very busy street, with lots of cars and trucks traversing the blacktop.  

All of a sudden, T stopped in the middle of the path.  I stopped as well, as I was holding her elbow while she guided me.  She seemed to be lost, and pondering where to go.  I was really confused, as I’m the one who always gets lost in the middle of places I know! 

So I asked her “What’s the matter? Are you lost?”  

She didn’t answer me right away.  She kept looking to her left, then to her right.  I prodded again, saying “What is it?  What are you looking at?”  

She then said, with a bit of reluctance, “There’s a chickadee just outside the white line on the road.” 

I immediately wanted to go get the poor little bird, and said so.  But seeing the obvious insanity of sending a blind woman to the edge of a busy street heaving with rushing traffic to try and locate a tiny cloud of feathers, she would have none of that.  

She asked me if I was done with my coffee.  I said yes and gave her my empty Starbucks cup.  She then made her way to the edge of the road and scooped up the little bird into the paper cup.

She put the cup with the chickadee peering out, onto the grass near a bush.  I naturally wanted to see it.  So T brought me over to see our nearly road kill.  

Once I saw the tiny ball of fluffy feathers, I wanted to hold it.  With a sigh T said, “Okay, but we are not taking it home!”   

I said, “I’ll take it to my mom’s.”

T could see I was not going to leave the chickadee there in the grass.

The little bird was wobbly, leaning to one side, and its wing kind of drooped and splayed out on that side. According to our best guess, it looked like it had probably flown into a car.  If it had gotten hit by a car, it would probably have been more dead or disfigured. But since he was still awake and alert, and not too startled, we figured he was probably dazed.

I wasn’t sure if it would even live very long, but I really didn’t want it to die alone or be lunch for a local cat or something. I know, circle of life and all that, but I really have a soft spot in my heart for birds. I raised a sparrow when I was a kid, and I couldn’t leave the cutest little fluff ball here to become an interesting diversion for a playful or hungry predator. 

 “He shouldn’t die alone,” I said in the saddest, most pathetic voice I could muster. Unable to refuse my puppy dog eyes and plaintive request, T relented and let me carry him to my mom’s.

I held the chickadee close to my body as we walked the few blocks to my mom’s place. 

Once there, my mom and I cooed and awed over the bird, encouraging him to try to drink some water and eat some oatmeal. I don’t think he did, but we certainly tried to be persuasive with the menu of presumably attractive (to a bird) items that we had available. 

After a bit, T said she had to get back home, but reminded me in her most fervent “tough guy” voice, that under no circumstances was I to bring the bird home.  

I agreed, saying I would try to call my friend Vickie and ask if she could care for the bird.  But of course (you can see the foreshadowing from a mile away ) when I called Vickie she was not home.  

My mind was racing, what should I do? How could I make sure that my little “Phoebe” would be well cared for? You know, I have such a warm glowing feeling for birds in general, and this one in distress made my heart expand, kind of like the Grinch’s heart where it “… grew three sizes that day.”  So I asked my mom if she had an old tissue box I could have.  

I was going to make my little charge a soft, cozy nest.  So with the make-shift nest ready, I put the chickadee in it and set off for home.  

My plan was to leave the bird under a spruce tree near our home, where I always heard lots of little birds.  When I got to the tree, I took the injured bird out and tried to put it under the tree.  But the fuzzy little thing refused to get off my hand. 

As I knelt there in the grass next to the tree wondering now what I was going to do, my cell phone rang.  It was T calling me.  “Hello,” I answered the phone. 

“Where are you?”  T said, concerned. 

“I’m trying to put the chickadee under this tree by Shopko, but he won’t get off my hand,” I said in a somewhat desperate voice.   There was silence on the other end of the phone.

“Okay, bring the bird home. We can put him in the bushes over by our house,” T said with some hesitation. 

“I love you. See you in a minute.”  I flipped my phone shut fast as I could so she couldn’t change her mind. 

Now let me point out to you that it’s not that T doesn’t love animals. It’s just that she knew that with my vision issues, the job of caretaking this downy delight that I was determined to take on, would eventually fall to her in one fashion or another. And she didn’t really need one more responsibility on her plate.

Back in the Kleenex-box nest the bird went, and I slowly walked the block to home. T was waiting for me on the steps.

So I took Phoebe – that’s what we started to call our chickadee ’cause that’s the song they sing “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, Phoe-bee” – out of the box, and T brought us over to a bush in the alley near the fence.  

As I was going to release Phoebe, a big, barking, black dog approached menacingly towards us.  Okay, not a good plan. 

I said, “How ’bout under the porch?”  T agreed, so once again I tried to get the bird to hop out of my hand.  But Phoebe was having none of it.  

Again I turned sad eyes on T and said, “I don’t know what to do, I think he just needs a little time to get his strength back.” 

T just looked at me for a long moment, then said, “Alright, bring him into the office.”  This little fuzz ball had easily wrapped itself around my heart, and was starting to attach himself to T’s too.

Once inside the warm office, I dug out my heating pad and put it on low under the  box.  I covered the opening in the Kleenex box with a tissue to keep the heat in.  

T and I worked on our computers, checking on our little Phoebe every few minutes.  He – or she, we don’t really know which – was sleeping.  After an hour or so, we heard Phoebe trying to get out of the box.  I took the tissue off and Phoebe hopped out.  

His wing didn’t seem to be drooping as much, and the fact that he was hopping seemed like a good sign.  I went to see what I could find in the kitchen for him to eat.  I really had no idea what chickadees ate.  I assumed little insects and seeds.  Hmmm, fresh out of both.  So I had some corn and bread that I mashed up.  I brought in some water too.  Once again Phoebe refused to eat, but I did get him to take a little water.

By now, his strength was building and Phoebe was hopping all over the room, but he did tire easily.  He would go exploring under the desk, then have to take a little nap. His eyes would close for a few minutes.  With all the hopping and flapping and his wing back in its normal position, I thought perhaps Phoebe was ready to be set free.  So I scooped up my little bird-brained friend, and we headed outside. 

Phoebe had been so active, I was sure he wanted to go, but when I opened my hands to allow him to jump off, he just sat there, looked at me for a moment, then turned his attention to his wing and proceeded to preen his feathers.  He seemed to be saying, “La, la, la. What?  I’m not going anywhere.”  So T and I looked at each other and laughed.  What a personality this little guy had.  So we agreed, Phoebe had decided that he needed more time to recover. 

I put Phoebe back in his box, but he just didn’t want to stay in it.  I was trying to come up with something I could rig up for him, so he wouldn’t have to be confined to the box, but not hopping all over the office. I was having a hard time keeping track of him, and did not want to squash him. 

Pheoebe had hopped up T’s leg, and was resting there.  She looked at me and said, “Do you want to maybe get him a cheap bird cage?” I could tell he was working his own little bird magic and casting a spell on her so that she was beginning to fall in love with him. 

So T looked up the phone numbers to a few of the local pet stores, and found a bird cage for under $15.  She went to the mall a few blocks away, while I was in charge of watching Phoebe.  Easier said than done!  After T left, Phoebe jumped out of my hand, and I lost track of him. 

Then I heard flapping and scratching coming from the space heater in the room.  Thank goodness it wasn’t on.  Phoebe had managed to hop/fly/I’m not sure how?  through the metal grate protecting the heating pan.  By the time I bent a few rungs and coaxed him out of his little jail cell, poor little Phoebe was totally exhausted, and I could feel his tiny heart was beating so fast.  He fell asleep right in my hands. The trauma of the whole day was taking its toll; he spent a lot of time napping that day. 

T came home a few minutes later with a small bird cage in hand.  She also got some millet seed and was told that most birds would eat this.  T put the swing and perches along with a food and water cup into the cage.  Then we put Phoebe in his new home for the time being.  

We had decided that if he was strong enough in the morning we would let him go outside.  I was still concerned about Phoebe getting enough to eat.  I wanted to go to the pet store just around the block to get some wild bird seed.  Not seeing the need, since she had just brought home millet from the mall, but noting that I was not going to let it go, she finally gave in and drove me to the store. 

The place was just about to close, and the owner was helping some other customers.  So we set out on our own to look for the seed. That’s when I heard it, an old crackly sounding, “Heloooow.”  I moved towards the greeting, thinking it was a clerk to help us, when T grabbed my arm and directed me away from the mystery greeter.  I asked what was wrong.  Why was she so freaked out?

She then brought me over to a very bald parrot!  Okay not exactly bald, but his entire body had no feathers on it – his wings had a few feathers and his head looked mostly normal, but the gruesome sight of the oddly proportioned “naked” bird still haunts T to this day.  I must admit it was not a pretty sight, but I felt bad for the bird.

Eventually we got some seed and left that little shop of horrors.

When we got back home, I filled Phoebe’s seed cup and watched as he went from the swing to the food, choosing to sit in it, rather than eat it. 

I kept asking T to look and see if he was eating, as I could not see well enough to make it out.  She watched, and to our surprise the chickadee ate a few seeds!  I was very happy and optimistic that maybe Phoebe would be okay.  

T found an old towel, and we draped it over the back half of the cage, and shut off the lights, as Phoebe had perched on the swing and put his little head behind his wing. Nighty-night.

Now you might think this story had a happy ending, and I suppose, in a way, it does. But the next morning when we went to check on Phoebe, T couldn’t find him. Then she spotted the bird lying on the bottom of the cage…dead…yes our poor little Phoebe had died. Probably the shock to his system, along with the internal injuries were too extensive. He had been doing so much better the night before. We were both surprised and sad that our little distraction from the everyday routine was gone. 

But I was also able to look on it as a gift.  With my eyesight the way it is now, I am not able to see birds the way I used to.  So to be able to hold and look at this little chickadee up close was truly a gift from God. 

Even though the time we had with our little Phoebe was limited, he melted our hearts, and we still to this day reminisce about the day a bird no bigger than a chicken’s egg turned our Saturday into instant parenthood. 

How ‘bout it?

-Vision Runner

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This is powerful. Enjoy and consider …

How ’bout it?

-Vision Runner

The Daffodil Principle
~ by: Jaroldeen Asplund Edwards

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, “Mother, you must come and see the daffodils before they are over.” I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. Going and coming took most of a day–and I honestly did not have a free day until the following week.

“I will come next Tuesday, ” I promised, a little reluctantly, on her third call.

Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised, and so I drove the length of Route 91, continued on I-215, and finally turned onto Route 18 and began to drive up the mountain highway. The tops of the mountains were sheathed in clouds, and I had gone only a few miles when the road was completely covered with a wet, gray blanket of fog. I slowed to a crawl, my heart pounding. The road becomes narrow and winding toward the top of the mountain. As I executed the hazardous turns at a snail’s pace, I was praying to reach the turnoff at Blue Jay that would signify I had arrived. When I finally walked into Carolyn’s house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren I said, “Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these darling children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!”

My daughter smiled calmly,” We drive in this all the time, Mother.”

“Well, you won’t get me back on the road until it clears–and then I’m heading for home!” I assured her.

“I was hoping you’d take me over to the garage to pick up my car. The mechanic just called, and they’ve finished repairing the engine,” she answered.

“How far will we have to drive?” I asked cautiously.

“Just a few blocks,” Carolyn said cheerfully.

So we buckled up the children and went out to my car. “I’ll drive,” Carolyn offered. “I’m used to this.” We got into the car, and she began driving.

In a few minutes I was aware that we were back on the Rim-of-the-World Road heading over the top of the mountain. “Where are we going?” I exclaimed, distressed to be back on the mountain road in the fog. “This isn’t the way to the garage!”

“We’re going to my garage the long way,” Carolyn smiled, “by way of the daffodils.”

“Carolyn,” I said sternly, trying to sound as if I was still the mother and in charge of the situation, “please turn around. There is nothing in the world that I want to see enough to drive on this road in this weather.”

“It’s all right, Mother,” She replied with a knowing grin. “I know what I’m doing. I promise, you will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience.”

And so my sweet, darling daughter who had never given me a minute of difficulty in her whole life was suddenly in charge — and she was kidnapping me! I couldn’t believe it. Like it or not, I was on the way to see some ridiculous daffodils — driving through the thick, gray silence of the mist-wrapped mountaintop at what I thought was risk to life and limb.

I muttered all the way. After about twenty minutes we turned onto a small gravel road that branched down into an oak-filled hollow on the side of the mountain. The Fog had lifted a little, but the sky was lowering, gray and heavy with clouds.

We parked in a small parking lot adjoining a little stone church. From our vantage point at the top of the mountain we could see beyond us, in the mist, the crests of the San Bernardino range like the dark, humped backs of a herd of elephants. Far below us the fog-shrouded valleys, hills, and flatlands stretched away to the desert.

On the far side of the church I saw a pine-needle-covered path, with towering evergreens and manzanita bushes and an inconspicuous, lettered sign “Daffodil Garden.”

We each took a child’s hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path as it wound through the trees. The mountain sloped away from the side of the path in irregular dips, folds, and valleys, like a deeply creased skirt.

Live oaks, mountain laurel, shrubs, and bushes clustered in the folds, and in the gray, drizzling air, the green foliage looked dark and monochromatic. I shivered.

Then we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped. Before me lay the most glorious sight, unexpectedly and completely splendid. It looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes where it had run into every crevice and over every rise. Even in the mist-filled air, the mountainside was radiant, clothed in massive drifts and waterfalls of daffodils. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow.

Each different-colored variety (I learned later that there were more than thirty-five varieties of daffodils in the vast display) was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue.

In the center of this incredible and dazzling display of gold, a great cascade of purple grape hyacinth flowed down like a waterfall of blossoms framed in its own rock-lined basin, weaving through the brilliant daffodils.

A charming path wound throughout the garden. There were several resting stations, paved with stone and furnished with Victorian wooden benches and great tubs of coral and carmine tulips. As though this were not magnificence enough, Mother Nature had to add her own grace note — above the daffodils, a bevy of western bluebirds flitted and darted, flashing their brilliance. These charming little birds are the color of sapphires with breasts of magenta red. As they dance in the air, their colors are truly like jewels above the blowing, glowing daffodils. The effect was spectacular.

It did not matter that the sun was not shining. The brilliance of the daffodils was like the glow of the brightest sunlit day. Words, wonderful as they are, simply cannot describe the incredible beauty of that flower-bedecked mountain top.

Five acres of flowers! (This too I discovered later when some of my questions were answered.) “But who has done this?” I asked Carolyn. I was overflowing with gratitude that she brought me — even against my will. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

“Who?” I asked again, almost speechless with wonder, “And how, and why, and when?”

“It’s just one woman,” Carolyn answered. “She lives on the property. That’s her home.” Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory.

We walked up to the house, my mind buzzing with questions. On the patio we saw a poster. ” Answers to the Questions I Know You Are Asking” was the headline. The first answer was a simple one. “50,000 bulbs,” it read. The second answer was, “One at a time, by one woman, two hands, two feet, and very little brain.” The third answer was, “Began in 1958.”

There it was. The Daffodil Principle.

For me that moment was a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more than thirty-five years before, had begun — one bulb at a time — to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top. One bulb at a time.

There was no other way to do it. One bulb at a time. No shortcuts — simply loving the slow process of planting. Loving the work as it unfolded.

Loving an achievement that grew so slowly and that bloomed for only three weeks of each year. Still, just planting one bulb at a time, year after year, had changed the world.

This unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived. She had created something of ineffable magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the greatest principle of celebration: learning to move toward our goals and desires one step at a time — often just one baby-step at a time — learning to love the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time.

When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small increments of daily effort, we too will find we can accomplish magnificent things. We can change the world.

“Carolyn,” I said that morning on the top of the mountain as we left the haven of daffodils, our minds and hearts still bathed and bemused by the splendors we had seen, “it’s as though that remarkable woman has needle-pointed the earth! Decorated it. Just think of it, she planted every single bulb for more than thirty years. One bulb at a time! And that’s the only way this garden could be created. Every individual bulb had to be planted. There was no way of short-circuiting that process. Five acres of blooms. That magnificent cascade of hyacinth!

All, all, just one bulb at a time.”

The thought of it filled my mind. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the implications of what I had seen. “It makes me sad in a way,” I admitted to Carolyn. “What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a wonderful goal thirty-five years ago and had worked away at it ‘one bulb at a time’ through all those years. Just think what I might have been able to achieve!” My wise daughter put the car into gear and summed up the message of the day in her direct way. “Start tomorrow,” she said with the same knowing smile she had worn for most of the morning. Oh, profound wisdom!

It is pointless to think of the lost hours of yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson a celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only ask, “How can I put this to use tomorrow?”

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Do What Ya Gotta Do 

Last year I ran in a little 4 mile race that took place in an area of town I am not as familiar with.  The Missoula Roots Run is in conjunction with the Missoula Roots Festival:  lots of live music, arts and crafts and plenty of food!  Having lived in Missoula all my life, I knew the area but had not run in this particular part of town since the mid-90’s.  So while I “knew” where I was, I was still a little bit nervous about running this race and staying on the race route. 

The race started at 11 a.m. which I thought was kind of a late start for the end of August.  But as it turned out, it was quite pleasant: not too hot yet with blue, sunny skies.  

The time was getting close to the start of the race, so T positioned me somewhere in the middle of the group of runners off to the right side.  

We were waiting for the bang of the start gun to go off when Anders, the owner of our local running store “The Runners Edge,” announced that we had to wait a few minutes to start the race as there was a train crossing right on the road we were starting on.  

As we stood there, a gal who was waiting next to us said she has seen me running out by her house.  I commented on the hill we would be running less than a mile into the race.  I told her I had not run hills in years, and was not sure how I would do.  She told us about what a fellow runner had advised.  

He said, “If you want to be good at running hills, Run Hills. If you want to run fast…Run Fast.”  

This was such a straight-forward concept, but very profound at the same time.  How many times do we say “I wish I could….”  But how simple it is, really: If we just simply did it, eventually we would get good at it.  

Me, personally, however, I do not wish to be good at running hills…

How ‘bout it?

-Vision Runner 

P.S. The hill was fairly easy, and I also ended up with lots of help on the race route as people were so generous when they saw I was using my white cane.  I am so grateful for the kind and loving women who took the time during their run to make sure I was okay and following the right route.  Sure makes me proud of my fellow runners! 

And I finished the four miles in about 46 minutes…Not too bad for a blind runner.

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