The Bird

In February, when I was given the invitation from spirit to make the abrupt leap to the new clinic space, I went for it. It was a magical opportunity. I had finally found the place that was perfectly me. Despite a significant element of risk, I knew with every fiber of my being that it was the only choice. Now, a month in, I can’t express how good it feels. My heart is happy when I am there. It feels so congruent to finally have a space that is worthy of my clients, myself, and the work we do together.

Despite the fact that the move was so good, so right, so exciting, it was still a big change. In this process, I was sharply reminded that big change, even when it involves a dream coming to life, can still feel like getting smacked in the head with a two-by-four. 

I utilized all my usual daily tools: meditation, grounding, prayer, writing…but it was to little avail. My nervous system had flipped to ‘on’ and the switch broke in that position. In any moment that I wasn’t actively engaged in a healing session or one of those aforementioned practices, my system lit up as if a bear were chasing me.

The bear chased me for a solid 4 weeks. At the 5 week mark, I stopped running. The bear was still chasing me, but I had run out of fumes. I collapsed. I was forced to rest. I honored that. Even after I started coming back online, even as the constant nausea subsided, even after sleep began to return, something still wasn’t right.

I had found myself more caught up in life’s minutiae than I generally prefer to be. I had gotten hyperfocused on the 3D, in a way that is definitely not my norm. I had lost conscious contact with spirit. I found myself becoming rigid, trying to manage and control my life. It felt terrible. It had crept up on me in such a way that I almost didn’t see it. I had lost connection with my heart. I was feeling lost. Sad. In a moment that was calling for joy and celebration, I wanted to throw in the towel. Nothing I tried was working. I knew to trust the process, to wait, but that didn't stop it from hurting. 

Then, three nights ago, I was saved by a baby bird.

I had been at home, sitting on the couch with my laptop propped open, about to write, when I heard the cats losing their minds and causing a ruckus outside on the patio. It was a beautiful 78 degree night with a light breeze, so I had the sliding glass door open. I heard the deep hollow scratches of heavy plant pots being pushed around the concrete, banging into the wire balcony fencing. (I had put the hardware cloth fencing up 3 years ago after Shepard accidentally jumped off the balcony one night while going after a squirrel. I now call the patio the ‘Kluck County Jail’). I walked over to the screen door and looked out. I saw the two crazies intent upon something behind one of the empty pots. They were working so hard at whatever it was that I thought they might break the pots and jump out of their own skins.

I walked out onto the patio barefoot, despite having just done a healing foot soak, to see what all the fuss was about. I assumed it would be some giant beetle. But no. I looked through the fence, and in a triangular corner of the narrow concrete ledge, was a baby bird. He looked up at me. He saw me, like a friend would. I was stopped in my tracks by his innocence and calm. He lowered his gaze to slowly look at Shepard, then Sylvester. Despite being face-to-face with 2 excitable cats (excited over him, no less), he did not show fear, only curiosity. It was surreal, and beyond cute. Thank god the fence was there, or he would have met his end in Shepard’s mouth. I could tell he had no idea how close he was to destruction. That is what made it even sweeter. He was just there, being his pure, natural self, looking at all of us with wonder, with curiosity, with no awareness or experience of such a thing as danger. I kept thinking, I would have walked out to a very different scene had you landed on the inside of the fencing, buddy. 

I paused with uncertainty. How was I going to get him to safety? How could I get to him with this tall fence in place? I couldn’t reach over it with my arms. I couldn’t poke through and push him off. I was pretty sure he couldn’t fly two stories down, at least not with ease. I had to get to him. My brain quickly rolodexed down the tools at hand until the tall, long-handled dustpan flashed in my mind. Yes. That was the answer. 

Now, to secure the cats. I paused to sigh. This might be a struggle. You can do this, Stacy. 

While the two furry goons were still occupied with the bird, I walked over to lock their cat door. Then I went to pick up Sylvester. He is not as athletic as Shepard. I knew if I tossed him inside first, there was less chance of him running back out when it was time to toss Shepard in. I slid open the glass door and tossed him in, quickly closing the door. Next, I walked towards Shepard. He knew what was coming and didn’t like it. He wiggled, but didn’t put up too bad of a fight. They may have lively cat instincts and be extreme in their enthusiasm, but they are both really good boys. I slid open the door and tossed him in a little distance to buy myself time to quickly close the door. Success. Now, they couldn’t mess with my bird-retrieval task, though they desperately wanted to. They were throwing their bodies against the cat door like zombies in a post-apocalyptic movie.

I walked over to the patio closet, opened the door and grabbed the dustpan, which thankfully had the perfectly-lengthed handle. I reached it up and over the fence. I positioned the dustpan flatly on the patio ledge to box in and secure the bird, then slid it towards his feet, inviting him to step in. He stepped in easily. I gently scooped him up and lifted the dustpan back up and over to the main patio area. I reached into the dustpan and gently scooped him up in my right hand. I cradled him in my palm and he sat there, ever so sweetly. He looked up, those tiny eyes peering up to meet mine. He didn’t look away. A warm rush ran through my body from the sacredness of the connection. He didn’t stir. He didn’t try to go anywhere. I could feel his energy, content and grounded in my palm. We were communicating. He was showing me how to be vulnerable, present. He was showing me how to trust, how to love. My heart was so moved. I felt suspended in a state of awe. I wanted to linger there forever, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. It was no time to be selfish. I had two cats chomping at the bit inside, plus, I didn’t know if carrying a human scent would ostracize him from other birds or his family (if I could find them) once I got him back out to the trees.

I looked at him and thought, Ok little one, now for the survivor challenge. We gotta make it through the lion’s den. Whatever you do, please don’t jump.

Holding him in my right palm, I covered him with my left to keep him protected. I had to take the gamble of removing my left hand in order to slide open the glass patio door, but he sat, as calmly as ever. He wasn’t trying to go anywhere. Once inside, I quickly covered him again as I walked past the cats and crossed the living room. So far, so good. The cats shockingly sat in place, watching as we passed. Upon reaching the front door, I lifted my hand in one final risky uncovering to turn the locks, open the door, and get us through to the other side with no escaping cats. Once again, he remained calm and still in my palm. We did it. I felt so much love with this little one in my hand. 

I walked down the front stairs, still barefoot, and then down to the front parking lot. I thought about putting him in the trees in the wooded median area, but my instincts said no. I needed to walk all the way around the building to get in the general vicinity of my balcony. Even if I couldn’t spot the nest, I could at least get him in range of other birds.

I had no idea if birds were helpful to each other in the way that human communities are, but I wanted to believe so. I walked around the building, my feet feeling the cool, damp earth. It felt nice. I couldn’t remember the last time my feet had touched the earth like this. It had been years. I carefully placed my feet with each step, taking in all the sensations, noticing the wobbly adjustments of my ankles as I stepped from large, smooth rocks to small uneven pebbles, leaves, and scratchy twigs. My breath came alive with a gasp each time my foot came down on a pointy stick or sharp rock. It all felt like a magical adventure. It was a sacred encounter to be barefoot on the ground holding a baby bird. I felt alive in a way that I haven’t in, I can’t remember. I giggled for a moment as I considered that my neighbors might be watching me through their windows and wondering what I was doing in their “backyard”. I didn’t care. I was being rescued by a bird.

Once I neared the section of woods directly behind my apartment, I once again paused. I didn’t know where the nest was, so I was uncertain about exactly what to do. Looking around, my eye selected a not-so-high tree branch. I gently set him on that. He could fly, but not much. I watched him do a little jump when we had been up on the patio earlier. I took a step back. He looked at me. I wanted to cry. I didn’t want to leave him. I had wanted to hold him forever. I felt scared, powerless. I wanted to know that he was going to be ok. But I also knew that I could never get that guarantee. That is how life is for all of us. He has a path. He has to live it. I loved him, which meant I had to leave him to live it. I whispered goodbye, then turned to walk away, praying that his mother would hear him and lead him to safety. Every few steps, I turned back, to see if he was still standing there. He remained. Once I turned the corner, I let go.

I was in a surge of so many emotions. I decided that whatever was to happen out there, he would have a better fate than he would have in meeting the mouth of one of my cats (I know those wily guys would have found a way to reach him…and that would have ended in a further crisis for me) or for him to have fallen two stories down to the ground. 

As I walked back around and up the stairs to my apartment, I couldn’t help but think,  Little one got brave and attempted flight too high for his capacity.

I took this to symbolize that when we make big leaps in life, we might go beyond our means. We might fall and almost get eaten by cats (or life minutiae), but there will always be an unexpected helper, whether human or unseen, that will be there to:  

A. Have a fence in place so the cats can't get to us

B. Hold us in their hand and carry us out of danger to a nice tree

C. Let us hold them in our hand and carry them out of danger to a nice tree

Did I rescue the bird or did the bird rescue me? 

I believe it is always both. We all stand in some face of peril. In service we receive. In receiving, we serve.

Since my encounter with the bird, I have become acutely aware of the bird songs outside. I hear them all the time, at home, and now at clinic. They fill me with delight. How had I not noticed them before? How had I become to deadened to care?

None of that matters. I hear them now.

When I am home, I go on the patio often to look at the birds as they fly and hop from branch to branch. Will I recognize you, little one? Will I see you again?

Even though I look, even though I wonder, I know that doesn't matter either. Our connection, as it happened, when it happened, is what mattered. The change it brought about in me is what mattered.

He has already spoken to me, though, through a person. The morning after our exchange, I was working in clinic. A client who had not yet seen the new space walked in and looked around. As she took it all in, a smile beamed across her face and she exclaimed, “This is such a treehouse.”

My heart lit up. “Yes.” I said, “Yes it is.”

~Stacy Jane Kluck

3/30/26