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va·gar·y noun an unexpected and inexplicable change in a situation or in someone’s behavior.
“the vagaries of the weather” Many years ago, when my son, Simon, made a trip to Alaska one summer, he returned with a gift for me. A large red journal with a raven sticker on the front of it. I had of course saved it and put it away to use for something special and then forgotten where I put it. When I found it again and opened it this summer, I discovered the following inscribed on the opening page.
“Some of us are blessed with a great dad but I was blessed with the Best. I know you’ve got a lot of these but here’s a red one :). I like writing prompts so I’ll give you one for this book… Write a poem and draw a picture that relates directly or indirectly to the poem. Love, Simon.”
I grew up bird watching in northern Illinois. I learned to identify them by shape and color as many of them stuck out like sore thumbs against the green and brown backgrounds of oak, elm, hickory and burr oaks. I watched them in fields, on fence rows, in the garden and our backyards and at the many feeders mom had. When we moved to Minnesota and my parents lived in the forest and I spent more and more time in the woods that are more dense and diverse up here, I noticed that I didn’t see birds as much. I heard them though, all around, nearly all the time. If there’s no bird sound in the woods, something’s wrong.
Some birds, like whiskey jacks and catbirds and European starlings mimic sounds around them. Many times they sound like other birds and woodland creatures on purpose. Ravens do this as well. In town I’ve come to find that they mimic other sounds like screen doors, car security systems as well as other chirping sounds and interestingly, cats and dogs. One of my simple joys is waking up every morning during spring, summer and fall and hearing the birdsongs and trying to identify them without seeing them.
This summer, every morning began with a chorus of mixes and garbles that didn’t belong to any one particular bird that I could identify. Even my phone app seemed to be confused and told me I repeatedly had birds that wouldn’t and shouldn’t be this far north. But then, I noticed, over and over again, a consistency. First by sight and then by similar song, three starlings sitting on the power line in the alley above my garage. Some days there were just two, some days four or five. They hung out off and on most days in the morning and would return in the evening. I wrote about them quite a bit. Here’s one poem: Starlings (Sturnus vulgaris) Noisy. each morning a garbage bag collection of sounds; fragrant like leftovers, not one of them finished or complete.
Yet, together; the chorus of four or five of them stacked up on the power line that hangs over the alley behind our garage greets me just before sunrise. Now with the vagary of Winter I miss them.
I miss you. ©Timothy James Stouffer #elystreetpoet 01152025 All rights reserved These starlings aren’t so much to look at, but I’ve come to discover that their songs are a real blessing. Occasionally this winter I’ve seen two or three on the line, but obviously my windows aren’t open in these temperatures and so I don’t have them to wake me before dawn each day. I enjoyed their company and now that I don’t notice it, it leaves a void.
Writing is like that for me. On the rare days when I don’t write anything, I don’t feel good. I feel like something is amiss. I’ve learned to write about whatever I’m inspired to. Not to save the better ideas for later or a larger project. It’s best to use the journals, to fill the pages, to enjoy the moments of the journey, not just the destination. I remember spending a lot of time as a kid looking for bird species like indigo bunting, scarlet tanager and bluebirds. I missed a lot of great time by passing over the thrushes, different sparrows, blue jays and woodpeckers that were prevalent. I also didn’t pay too much attention to their songs. Now the song of a cardinal at Simon’s house in Minneapolis is more beautiful to me than the sight of the bird itself.
At 55, this is a lesson that took me a long time to learn. Most of the time, the most beautiful things, the things with the richest rewards are non-descript, they’re right in front of you. God blesses us with the ordinary, with the details in the journey, with the notes of songs that don’t sound like they belong to the vagaries of European starlings. Maybe this is part of what He means by “be still” in the Psalms.
