Commotion pulls me from the laundry room to the kitchen: a squawk and a flurry and almost a clang. Who knew beaks on wire mesh could sound like Balinese percussion? Five dark-feathered birds (that's as close as my taxonomy goes) are swooping and fluttering around the suet my husband hung on the side porch, and I watch them squabble with a smile. The victor is now clinging to the mesh cage upside down, claws wrapped tightly around the wire as he pecks at the last of the suet block. He finishes and flies up to the top of the mesh, swinging there smugly while the others hover, squeaking like old gate hinges. Our dog trots out behind me, nap interrupted, and watches too, head cocked more with amusement than with prey drive.
It's a peaceful moment, but full of life, and I say a silent thank you to Andrew for insisting on feeding the birds. I grew up preferring a static world: books, pen, paper, firelight. My mother tried to coax me to watch nature shows; only golf bored me more. But lately I've begun to crave the outdoors, the fresh air and sunlight and splashing water that sound like cliches until you remember they're what we're made of.
Now I want a vegetable garden, a cutting garden, a compost heap, a birdbath so they can wash that sticky suet off their feet. And inside, I want that same sense of life: the energy that comes from lit candles, green plants, open windows, fresh flowers, a dog's padding paws.
Libraries and museums are fine. But they're called "stuffy" for a reason.
--Jeannette Cooperman, staff writer
