Hope & Feathers

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Have you ever read the poem about hope and feathers that Emily Dickinson wrote? It is one of my favorite poems of all time.

Suddenly, there are robins everywhere!

I’m sitting here with Abi on my right and Charlie on my left, always their pattern. And I’m listening to the daytime sounds outside.

There is the sound of distant traffic, muted, though only a block away—the sounds of the birds chirping out in the front bushes.

Robins are everywhere. On the roof behind me, perched on the privacy fence, and hopping around my patio. Suddenly, there are many of them.

Habits Of Robins:

Anyway, I decided to do some digging into the habits of robins, and here’s what I learned:

• Popular belief. That must mean that spring is right behind them. That’s what I’ve always heard people say. That is a fallacy. Contrary to popular belief, seeing an American Robin does not mean that spring is here.
• Robins migrate more in response to food than to temperature. Fruit is the robin’s winter food source. As the ground thaws in the spring, they switch to earthworms and insects. While the robins may arrive when temperatures reach 37 degrees, this is because their food becomes available. Not because the robins themselves need warm temperatures.
• Robins wander in the winter: Temperatures get colder as winter progresses. Robins need more food when it’s cold. These birds move here and there in response to diminishing food supplies and harsh weather.

So I guess that mystery is solved. They are here eating the same berries that the squirrels stand on my fence and eat from the tree branches. And no, it doesn’t mean that spring is right behind them, it seems.

The tree I mention is the one with the fragrant white flowers in springtime. I always look forward to the flowers blooming.

A Nod To Valentine’s Day:

This is my sole nod to Valentine’s Day. And that’s only because when I was cleaning out the closet, I came across these heart stems. On a whim, I poked a few into this plant.

I’ve never really decorated for Valentine’s Day. It just kind of passes me by without much thought. I guess I’m not a romantic.

Nature is my focus year-round. I pay more attention to the seasons than I do to holidays. I’d rather watch the birds and squirrels and the cycling seasonal changes.

The Blue Jay:

Just look at this blue beauty, a Blue Jay. All the shades of blue in the Blue Jay’s feathers fascinate me. It is like staring at the colors in a crayon box, arranged by shade.

Feast your eyes on the back of this Blue Jay, how the blues and blacks intermingle. The feathers somewhat fan out in the cold. Beautiful. Just beautiful.

The Hope Chest:

I am reading “The Hope Chest.”

The discovery of one woman’s heirloom hope chest unveils precious memories and helps three people, each having lost a part of themselves, find joy once again.

Ever since she was diagnosed with ALS, fiercely independent Mattie doesn’t feel like herself. She can’t navigate her beloved home, she can’t go for a boat ride, and she can barely even feed herself.

Her devoted husband, Don, doesn’t want to imagine life without his wife of nearly fifty years, but Mattie isn’t likely to make it past their anniversary.

A deliveryman just knocked on the door, and I signed for this book, called “The Promise.”

The Promise:

Amazon Teaser…

A few minutes after 9 p.m. on Palm Sunday, April 5, 1936, a massive funnel cloud flashing a giant fireball and roaring like a runaway train careened into the thriving cotton-mill town of Tupelo, Mississippi.

It killed more than 200 people, not counting an unknown number of black citizens. One-third of Tupelo’s population, therefore, was not included in the official casualty figures.

When the tornado hits, Dovey, a local laundress, is flung by the terrifying winds into a nearby lake. Bruised and nearly drowned, she makes her way across Tupelo to find her small family.

Her hardworking husband, Virgil, her clever sixteen-year-old granddaughter, Dreama, and Promise, Dreama’s beautiful light-skinned three-month-old son.

***

I have been reading 3-4 books per week at night lately. When spring arrives, and I’m working outside, I probably won’t be doing quite as much reading. I’ll be busy digging in the dirt.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers:

As I was writing this post, one of my favorite poems by Emily Dickinson came to mind. What exquisite words.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul 
And sings the tune without the words 
And never stops at all. 
And sweetest in the Gale is heard 
And sore must be the storm 
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm. 
I’ve heard it in the chillest land 
And on the strangest Sea 
Yet never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

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