“These are the days of miracle and wonder
This is the long distance call”
— “The Boy in the Bubble” by Paul Simon
It’s 4:30 a.m. in the Republic of Crow.
They’re out there in the backyard like a misfit crew of choristers, mavericks all, and none of whom spent enough time at practice.
They’re clearly excited — too excited to even try to call in tune, or in unison, their voices rasping like Rod Stewart’s at the end of a show.
Caw! Ca-caw! Ca-Caw! CAW-CAW!
There’s a lone raven out there, too, sounding like someone gargling dice; like a lone old man at a craps table.
He seems unperturbed — and unimpressed by — the vocal stylings of his corvid brethren.
The crows wake me most mornings now, their harsh cacophony drowning out the gentle chirps and tweets and peeps of the songbirds.
The crows always sound like they’re in the throes of some amazing discovery, and though I could do without the discordant 4:30 a.m. wakeup call, I’ve always loved crows and ravens both. They are smart, cunning and resourceful.
And during this time of pandemic, when most people are being purposefully and prudently antisocial, they are a welcome sound that life is carrying on outside these four walls.
These are not the best of times.
The horrible shootings in Nova Scotia and the unspeakable heartache; the continued worry about the people you love in long-term care; the longing for family and friends, and the constant state of high alert that is life during COVID-19 — it’s enough to make anyone feel stressed and defeated.
Last week I wrote about finding joy in simple pleasures. This week, that was harder to do.
So I put on my rubber boots and headed out into the garden to look for inspiration.
The wreckage of Snowmageddon is being revealed as the snow cover shrinks.
Smashed birdbath, bent and broken rose bushes, tattered shrubs; the herb garden still buried under a dirty mound of snow and ice. A starling’s single wing on the ground is a macabre memento of a fatal encounter.
Last week I wrote about finding joy in simple pleasures. This week, that was harder to do.
It’s hard to believe this dreary wasteland gave us any pleasure last year, and in the years before that.
But there are subtle signs of rejuvenation if you look for them.
Delicate green shoots are pushing their way up through the sodden ground.
Pink buds that will turn into vivacious peonies are poking up through the litterfall.
Delicate dark purple crocuses with golden pistils have emerged.
The starlings are back to nest in the eaves of the shed, getting ready to welcome their young.
Among the prickly thorns of the rose bush are tight red nubs that will burst forth in a flourish, as leaves.
Once all the snow is gone there will raking to do, broken tree limbs to snip, painting to be done, and a dozen other outdoor chores that make you feel like you’ve done an honest day’s work and gotten your lungs full of fresh air.
I’m no Pollyanna. I have black days the same as everybody else. It’s hard to look for bright spots sometimes, when much of the world seems bleak.
As I write this, the bright blue sky is filling quickly with cloud; a curtain of grey is being drawn, muting what little colour there was in the drab landscape.
But when you have a garden, or a small patch of ground to call your own, or even just a window box or a flower pot, there is always the promise of something.
When I was a child, my mother would let me have a few of the dried white beans she would soak and turn into baked beans. I would put them on a damp paper towel on a sunlit windowsill until they sprouted, and then I’d plant them in the poor, dusty soil near the foundation of our house. When they fought their way through the rocks and eventually sent out their delicate green shoots, it would seem like the most wonderful kind of magic: something out of nothing, a growing thing from unyielding earth.
Little seedlings of hope.
Pam Frampton is The Telegram’s managing editor. Email [email protected]. Twitter: pam_frampton
