The Song of the Bird: Grieving during Covid-19

The Song of the Bird. Do you hear it? Isn’t it just beautiful? The Song of the Bird. It’s been an unusual way to pass the time this last few months, mulling over all the things l might have been missing down through the rush and tumble of my life until all of a sudden; THE STOP, last March.

And in all my wanderings and in all my wonderings through life, one of the gifts I seem to have missed along the way is the Song of the Bird. These May days, at about 4am, the first bird begins to chirp and twitter and peep so that gradually with the rising of the sun, the chorus grows excited and loud. More and more join in from the trees, the hedges and the eaves around our house. And what a song they sing. As if… “…strange times, so let me sing you my song…”

The Song of the Bird. The blackbirds. The thrushes. The robins. The finches. The wrens. The sparrows. And their young. Such a lovely sight. And such a delightful sound during these dark days. These dark days. These sad days.

Last week there was some fabulous sunny weather all through the days. Blue skies. Smiling sun. There were days when it was so hot that I kept reminding myself to top up fresh water in the old saucepans all around the garden as well as filling up the little bird feeders high up in the trees. And what a reward for my efforts, sitting still in the garden, seeing all the flashes of colour fluttering around excitedly as they filled their bellies with water and seed.

And so it was one evening with many of the doors and windows open through the house that as I strolled back from the cherry blossom, waving us goodbye for another year, I noticed the curtain in one of the rooms twitching now and again.

I stopped for a moment, looking across the garden wondering how that could be, when all of a sudden a little bird looked out at me from inside the window, trapped in the room, desperately trying to escape the suffocating heat. My heart sank. I ran into the room, baking hot from the midday sun, tiny feathers scattered everywhere, and the poor little creature obviously became more distressed as I stood there figuring out the easiest way to set him free.

I closed the door leading down the house and opened all the windows in the room to give him as many ways out as possible and quietly I began to encourage him towards the openings. Even moving as softly as I could through the room, the young thrush was becoming more and more agitated banging against the huge panes of glass and knocking himself off kilter again and again. Then to my relief he finally seemed to sense the breeze and flew excitedly across the room towards an open window.

Free at last. My hope had been….but whatever way he caught himself fleeing out the open window, he must have given his tiny head a right good rap because as I stood there excited for his freedom, my happiness turned to dismay as I watched him fall to the ground outside. A last little twitch and he was gone. Life over. Dead.

So young. So full of life. So much to live for. Yet now so still. This young thrush. No more the Song of the Bird. Just silence.

My heart sank as I bent down to pick up his little body. So colourful. So delicate. So warm. But no breath. No life. No song.

If only I had….. If only I had not..… What to do now…shaking my head in disbelief…what to do now…I turned around towards a laurel hedge beside me, carefully reached inside and placed him gently into a thicket of branches.

Rest now little bird…. “…for peace comes dropping slow…” as Yeats once painted for us.

Then, it was only as I lifted my head to move away that I saw the other thrushes around the garden all looking at me. A parent perhaps. A brother. A sister maybe. Just so sad. No song now. Just silence. And loss. I’m sorry. So sorry, I whispered.

All that evening with darkness falling, I thought about the little thrush. And those last minutes of his short life. And the spring sun. And flying freely. And singing for all. But then becoming trapped in the house. Desperate to live. Dying to stay alive.

All I could see were the different pictures in my head of the scattered feathers across the window sill…the frantic flapping as he tried to get free…the last desperate lunge for air that sadly ended his life. No more the Song of the Bird.

I have thought of that little thrush so often these last few weeks. My heart still sinks. Just sad. A bird, I know, “you are worth more than many sparrows”. But sad all the same.

If only I had….. If only I hadn’t..… No more the sound of his voice.

This last few months, so many of our families, our neighbours and our friends are heartbroken because they no longer hear the voice of someone they love.

A father. A mother. A sister. A brother. A son. A daughter. A friend. A neighbour. My cousin Declan in Castlebar. My cousin Kevin in America. Austin with whom I used to enjoy tea and homemade bread on a Sunday morning after Mass.

The grief has been all the more raw because of the rigid regulations placed on us this last while restricting our need to mourn. Taking away our hope to walk those last steps of the road with them. Taking away our wish to hold their hands. Taking away our chance to whisper goodbye. Because for all the faults we share as a nation, many people the world over appreciate how we celebrate the end of someone’s life here in Ireland.

The calls to the house. The trays of food. The glass of stout. The shaking of hands. The cup of tea. The sharing of stories. The digging of the grave. The guard of honour. The carrying of the coffin. The sound of song. The sound of silence.

The respect. The reverence. The ritual. All have been taken away from us this last while because of the fear of what harm we might bring on ourselves or even worse on those around us.

This has been cruel. The new world reality has brought a tangle of pain and sorrow to people everywhere and I have heard it said again and again this last few months how incredibly agonising it has been not to be able to hold the hand of a loved one as they drew their last breath, not to be able to look into their eyes with a glimmer of reassurance, not to be able to whisper in their ear “…I am here…”

You too have probably read some of the heart-breaking stories of final moments over these last few months, the kind hearted grandfather slipping away with nobody near to hold his time worn hands…the frightened little girl closing her eyes for the last time with nobody near to hold her soft tender hands….just so sad for the one who is going before us, hopefully to a better place, and hard too for those left behind who never got the chance to say goodbye; deprived as they were of whatever gathering ritual there might have been in ordinary times, to honour the passing of one who is loved so much.

And now here I am wondering as I type… What to say to you now? Who to help comfort you? How to offer you hope?

An extraordinary thing. This intention to type a piece has been wandering around inside me this last few weeks as I read story after heart-breaking story about how different people were trying to cope with the reality of death at this difficult time. And then suddenly this morning as I heard the Song of the Bird, in one of those rare moments of clarity, the revelation came to me. The Song of the Bird. The thrush. Write about him. Write his song. His story. His final moments…trapped…alone… afraid…not wanting to die.

And so with the sun setting on a beautiful summer’s evening here at home, I sit in the kitchen. I open my laptop. And I begin to type. The Song of the Bird. The guilt. The regret. The sadness. It all streams out before me onto the screen.

Then, an extraordinary thing. I am sitting here in the kitchen with all the doors and windows open again and the evening breeze wafting through the house when all of a sudden right there in front of me there’s a commotion at the big kitchen window looking out onto the back garden. A swallow, nesting with a mate in the garage right beside the house, as the family has done for many years now, takes a wrong turn so that instead of flying up to his brood high in the garage eaves, he gets lost and ends up inside the kitchen window banging his head repeatedly against the clear glass, desperate to get free. I just don’t believe what I am seeing. Incredible.

This time I stop and think. What to do. I slowly stand up from the kitchen table and take a tea towel from the drawer beside me then baby step my way towards the window. The terrified little bird flaps frantically as he senses me approaching but then for one astonishing moment he just becomes still. So still. Not a twitch as he waits for me. This is my chance. I gently cover him over with the tea towel and lift him lightly into my hands. So tiny. So fragile. So full of life.

We go out the back door together and into the middle of the garden where I carefully open up the towel to the Heavens and with a chirp and a tweet, he spreads his wings and takes to flight. This swallow. Soaring. Swooping. Swerving. Free again. Flying high. Full of song. This beautiful swallow.

I stand and stare. Redemption for me. Forgiveness of sorts. A thank you from Mother Nature. Because she knows.

And so to you who have lost someone you love this last while. To you who have not been able to walk that last part of the journey with them. To you who are feeling the sadness of not being able to say goodbye.

May I say, I hope for you the grace to grieve the loss inside you. I hope for you the grace to honour that loss, some day ahead, with a gathering of family and friends to celebrate the life of the one you love. And some day, down the road from now, I hope for you the grace, to be able to live with that loss, by hearing once again, in the gentle whispers of the trees, the Song of the Bird.