This morning a small bird hit the sliding glass door of my cabin. I was in the middle of my yoga practice, brought out of my body and inner world by the loud and somewhat sickening thud. While my heart scrambled for other plausible causes of the sound, my pragmatism knew what had caused it. I quickly went outside to find my beloved cat lurking over the motionless bird. I shoo’ed Ruby away and picked up the bird. It was small but not tiny, about the size of a young robin. I held it in one hand, close to my chest, the other hand cupped over it for warmth. It was alive, breathing in repetitive gasps, but not moving beyond its beak. I was uncertain if it was dying or just stunned. 

I stood with the bird in my hands, standing vigil if it was dying, providing safety and warmth if it was just recovering. After several minutes, nothing had changed: the bird continued to gasp but hadn’t moved. It was a frosty winter morning and I was wearing only leggings and no shirt, and my cold tolerance was fading. I opted to move back inside. For many minutes I meditated on my yoga mat with the bird between my chest and my two hands. 

This is not the first time I’ve experienced a “wild” animal dying, or not dying, my hands. Birds, mice and a young deer have all been held by me. In those moments, it is palpably clear that at some point, perhaps more than once, perhaps many times, we will all be the holder of the space, the safety and the warmth, for the dying or the sick; and at least once, and only once if we are lucky, we will all be the sick or the dying, seeking safety and warmth, and love. We will all be a small bird.

To hold a human who is dying as simply and purely as one can hold a bird, to be fully present without projection of our fear or doubt, is a primary reason why we engage with death, practice death, and shift our relationship with death. Today I held a small bird, tomorrow it may be my mother, or father, or friend, or beloved. Or it may be me who is being held. 

Despite the beauty and fragility of the moment, after many minutes the schedule of my day demanded my attention. I placed the bird into a box on a towel. About an hour later I had to leave the house so I checked on it. It looked at me and stirred. A good sign but it may still have internal injuries. I took it back into my hands and went outside. After a moment, it stood on my hand. It appeared to be assessing itself, though this may just be my projection. It gave me another look, then took flight, small feathers floating to the ground as it flew. 

I cannot say if the bird lived long beyond this. It is, after all, just one of the numerous small birds that frequent my property. It may have lived the rest of its natural life. It may have died shortly thereafter. Its transient nature and the uncertainty of its nature is no different from mine, or yours, despite our proclivity to see ourselves as greater. In late 2017, I was struck with severe pneumonia. I could not have been any more helpless for a few weeks. On that occasion I was a small bird who recovered to fly away and live on. There will come a day when I am a small bird that dies, perhaps in warm hands, or perhaps in a box alone. 

Today, a small bird was my teacher.