Oh, little bird, why did you visit — to entertain, to prick, to haunt, to teach?

To hear each spring the birds announce the return of familiar flowers,

longer sunlit days,

and a cast of budding greens,

awakens my senses to pay attention.

That a wren announces this intensity of life is no wonder.

Compared to their diminutive size, Bewick’s and Carolina wrens boast loud birdsong — clear and complex notes so recognizable they comfort, like a welcoming home.

I have heard these songs scores of times — in the early morning when an avian chorus competes with a Carolina’s sweet song, or when the afternoon sun scorches, and perched high somewhere exposed in the distance, a male Bewick’s wren tirelessly proclaims his father’s taught verse while other birds rest silent.

Four springs ago, while listening to birdsong from the back porch at the ranch, an unfamiliar song interrupted the membership sounds of the neighborhood.

The song starts as a series of sharp, clear, rapidly descending notes, then slowing and sometimes followed by a buzzy buzz — like spilling out sorrows with a gripe at the end.

Evocative of falling, the voice possesses a memorable quality I had no memory of ever hearing.

A canyon wren.

Aptly named, canyon wrens inhabit canyons throughout western North America, building nests on rock faces and in caverns and crevices that rise along lakes and rivers.

Described in birding resources as “visually inconspicuous,” “restricted to rocky cliffs or outcrops,” and “not generally associated with human development,” this present pair of canyon wrens was undeterred by our presence.

Not elusive as expected, the duo used our courtyard as a flyway —

darting low, back and forth around the ranch buildings; swooping with swallow-like flight from plants to porch beams; and then dropping to the ground, vanishing in veils of grass, before lifting off again to probe tree trunks for a meal; all the while pouring out liquid notes.

Were they working a runway — wearing dull brown, like all wrens, but adorned with a snowy breast, the white repeated in speckled dots from their crown to down their backs, contrasted with rufous tail feathers trimmed with bands of black?

Or, were they only playing, properly alive?

For three days they entertained while we watched and listened from the porch — enchanted by their clarion song, captivated by their inexhaustible energy, and delighted they stopped over during their supposed journey to a favored nesting site — a habitat of cliffs and canyons with water nearby.

The meeting left a lasting memory, and yet, an enduring memory can still escape the mind at a particular moment.

Two weeks later when we returned to the ranch, I was not thinking of the canyon wrens as I discovered twigs dangling from the porch light.

Screening — installed to prevent birds from nesting in the light fixture — prevented me from seeing up into the cavity.

I thought the dangling sticks were the start of an effort, not a nest in completion.

I should have thought further.

Instead, with a mind focused on removing the unwelcome sticks from the sconce, I reached for the screening and carefully pulled.

A split second later, without opportunity to turn back time, the entire masterpiece fell to the ground.

Oh, oh, oh nooo.

I reached down to pick up what appeared to be a mess of toppled twigs, but as I grabbed the mangled mass and turned it over, not only did the mess remain intact but it revealed a sight magnificent and disastrous.

Nestled within the scraggly twigs — which turned out to be meticulously woven together and not a mess at all — was a soft yellow inner lining precisely matted to form a perfect circular cup.

It looked like insulation, both in color and texture. And yet, it wasn’t constructed as conveniently as insulation purchased in the store — pre-cut in rolls ready to be unfurled into pockets of wood framing.

It was as if each fiber of insulation was individually lifted from its original manufactured form and reworked into a more marvelous material woven for the explicit purpose of protecting something precious.

It was magnificent.

Disaster lay beside it.

The cracked shells were heartbreaking to witness.

Not a single survivor.

If only I had removed the screening more carefully….

If only the nest had not flipped so suddenly…

If only I had not touched the screening at all…

If only I had considered the possibility of precious life inside instead of focusing on the outward chaos…

If only.

I wish there was an insulation to protect from the pain.

I walked with the image seared in my mind along with a sense of sorrow and regret.

Regret.

Regret challenges me to contemplate the circumstances of my choices, test the values that trigger my choices, and contend for more considered choices in the future — a playbook for regret as a fuel rather than a weight.

After a considered choice, I got rid of the screening, and the enterprising pair returned to rebuild in the porch light.

Wondering why they selected our home for their home, I watched the determined little wrens darting to and from the nest with a liveliness that seemed to forgive for the lives taken.

Still, their song remained a haunt, and my sorrow lingered.

A month later, we visited Big Bend National Park —

800,000 acres of majestic scenery —

including the Santa Elena Canyon.

We hiked into the canyon following a narrow trail of switchbacks and steep climbs along the shore of the Rio Grande where the towering cliffs of the canyon rise over 1000 vertical feet.

And bouncing off the jagged limestone walls were the songs of canyon wrens.

The moment I recognized the tune the effect on my hearing felt profoundly silent.

I stood.

I listened.

I grieved.

But then, the longer I listened a different effect took place, an exceedingly beautiful effect.

The cascading notes reverberated through the canyon, and the echo caught up with a new round of notes, spilling out an unending siren; and to the joyful music the little brown wrens turned vivid, their spirited flight catapulting between the cliffs, and their singing breaking the sorrow in my heart.

I stood.

I listened.

I watched.

I smiled.

The prick was present, but the haunt turned to sweetness.

“One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still.”  F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Last week, when reading Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s final novel, this passage sprang from the page.

The literal reading of it brings Jimmy to mind and thoughts of what wounds still, even though the healed skin?

And, it brings to mind canyon wrens. The captivating call of a canyon wren — clear cascading notes that seem scripted for this tale — will forever remind me of the fall.

I reflected on the claim of “no such thing” as scars healed.

Still, must our open wounds have weight?

Or, can they instead be fuel to fly?

No matter the wound — whether a serious pierce or a simple oh no — perhaps we are stronger walking with wounds a little left open because we can carry what they teach close in mind, at least as long as the echo of memory is still chanting.

I pray our wounds shrink to pin-pricks whether by celestial siren call or mountains moved, and that echoing memories of scars unhealed will lift us with the intensity of a delightful little wren to be resilient and forgiving, hopeful and happy.

 

Oh, little bird, why did you visit?

Thank you for the lesson.