Migration

This week the Baltimore orioles are living in my garden, also the rose breasted grosbeak, blue jays, house wrens, cardinals, and white-capped sparrow.

Some of the songbirds stay all summer while others are only here to strip as much nectar from the halved oranges that I hang outside for them until they continue on their journey.

Each year (bird nerd alert) I mark my bird book with the dates that particular birds frequent the garden. Their travels are consistent—falling mostly within a week or so of their previous visit.

Pilgrimage

Really, what these winged friends are doing is a pilgrimage.

Several years ago Fred and I took a pilgrimage to Spain and Portugal to visit Fatima and Santiago de Compostela. We didn’t take the hike that comprises walking 490 kilometers along Spain’s famous Camino. We did, however, pay homage and pray and were “sort of” pilgrims as we experienced the spirit of the camino.

A good friend of mine—who actually walked the 490 kilometer camino in 34 days—shared some of her experiences of her journey with me. She told of a sign she often saw when she stopped in café’s or shops along the way:

Tourists demand. Pilgrims are grateful

My friend talked about lodging full at the end of a long day finding herself traveling more kilometers to find a place to sleep; or fighting hunger, getting to the restaurant only to find it shuttered by the time she arrived for a meal. Despite having sore feet, an empty belly, and aching muscles, there was something special in the pilgrim journey.

What she experienced instead of the entitlement that often accompanies tourists was what she described as pilgrims summoning courage to continue on the journey and calling it a ‘blessing’ when things didn’t turn out (as often happened) as expected.

Patricia A Lunetta sums it up when she writes of paying attention, slowing down, and being grateful.

…As I drive home on a narrow curving road,
someone tailgates, itching to go faster,
not knowing he’s flesh and fragile.

Slowed by sadness and sick of pressure,
I pull onto the gravel shoulder,
let him shoot by…

and on my right

catch sight of a great blue heron
standing tall and still
and in the aisle
made by two rows
of towering trees.

Like a priest in feathered robes,
he bows his head three times
before an altar of mountain bluffs. I

t’s dusk,
and the moon, just rising,
illuminates his wings
as they open in benediction
for evening flight.
His parting call:

“Stay awake, Holiness
may spread its wings for you
at any moment.”