“Step, step, step, now stop”
Bird’s alarm halts hiker’s dance—
Rustling leaves sing on
Despite a sore Achilles tendon—the unfortunate result of running like a 30-year-old on my 65th birthday–I laced up my hiking boots and headed into the field. My hike didn’t last long, not because it was below freezing but for the fact that I was beginning to resemble Hopalong Cassidy, gimping like him, hobbling over hill and dale.
Stopping on a fence line, pondering whether to cross over or back, stretching my Achilles, waiting for some sign announcing whether I should stay or go, I aimlessly trudged on. Then, putting one foot on the barbed wire as if to crawl through, I stepped back, living proof of my ambivalence. As I continued hiking parallel to the fence line, it was then that the bird spoke to me, calling on me to stop, or at least proceed in another direction.
I am not an advanced birder, not even a novice. So, I say the bird “called,” because I’ve read where there is a difference between a bird’s call and a bird’s song. Songs tend to be more complex, even though they can sometimes be no more than a few syllables. This bird had only one strong syllable, so I’m guessing that the bird was giving me a call, specifically, what’s called an “alarm call.”
I jerked my head around, hoping to see what kind of bird it was. I find no trace of him/her.
The bird would remain anonymous, an unknown guardian of his or her territory.
People cross boundaries for various reasons: to explore what’s on the other side; to test their capabilities; to prove to themselves that they can conquer new territory; to find a new and better way; to make a statement about their power to invade another’s environment; to become someone else, or to find out who they are.
In their now-classic book on relationships, Boundaries: When to Say Yes, How to Say No to Take Control of Your Life, Drs. Henry Cloud and John Townsend wrote: “Boundaries define us. They define what is me and what is not me. A boundary shows me where I end and someone else begins, leading me to a sense of ownership.”
This past week’s past events have given us cause to pause and think about where and who we are in this strange time. Like many of you, I have felt a range of emotions since January 6, when that group of protesters crossed the boundary from peaceful protesters to a violent mob.
Crossing boundaries can sometimes evoke feelings of giddiness, exuberance, empowerment. But more often than not, stepping across the line into someone else’s territory can carry consequences we aren’t happy with, results that leave us wondering if we went too far and often wishing we hadn’t.
For some, the occupation of the U.S. Capitol only whetted an already hungry appetite for power and control. For others, planting their flag in enemy territory seemed enough. Then for others, it was a regrettable moment, the sad result of choices made while their emotions were “caught up in it.”
With the wind whipping my face, I sensed an innate desire to invade the bird’s domain; the bird couldn’t hurt me; at least I didn’t think so. Nonetheless, I chose to listen to the bird’s call of alarm. Choosing to respect what I thought, or at least imagined, to be the bird’s territory, I paused.
I would like to think my experience has taught me the wisdom of leaving alone what isn’t mine.
So, smiling to myself, I moved in the opposite direction, toward home, my place.
I had no regrets.
My Achilles tendon thanked me.
And so, I suppose, did the bird.