Closure: A Rather Flighty Concept

A topic that enjoys a lot of press these days is that of closure. People always seem to be seeking it out and trying to nail it down—mostly with regards to interpersonal relationships. It is really lovely when it can be achieved through zipping off an email or text message to some person with whom you have unfinished business or loose threads of emotional turmoil hanging out of the old and ragged hemline of your relationship. In this day and age of social media platforms, it is particularly brilliant when you can sew things right up with a Facebook message or by inviting someone to be “linked in” to your world.

Unfortunately, however, such neat and expeditious methods are a rarity for someone like me. Not to boast, but as one who is quite adept at complicating even the least complicated matters with surprising consistency, finding closure (no matter how advanced technology may become) is bound to be a multi-layered endeavor. Invariably, it is an intangible process which wreaks considerable havoc on body, mind, and soul. However, it is also eye-opening and self-revelatory—hence its importance.

Most recently, I went through this arduous process with quite an unlikely adversary: a bird I met on the sidewalk.

Now, despite the name of my blog and my referencing of various birds in many of my personal tales, I am actually not a bird person. It is true that I would very much like my tomb stone to bear the inscription: “She was the kind of person who keeps a parrot,” but that is because of the larger implications inherent in the statement rather than being due to any grain of literal truth. Generally speaking, I am not particularly enthralled by birds. The aesthetic snob in me can openly say that the less exotic or “pretty” the bird, the less interested I am likely to be. “Common” city birds are therefore borderline abhorrent. The infinite germs I imagine them to be harboring make me cringe.

My husband, who innately possesses a fantastically attuned observation radar system that really ought to be classified by the CIA, often points out to me the things he notices in the general radius of our persons. Something he is especially adept at honing in on: natural world phenomenon’s—such as bird nests. Most naked eyes would skim right over the camouflaged nests. Personally, being neither particularly observant nor particularly partial to birds, I would likely not spot such sightings with even a pair of sophisticated bi-nocs and a trained team of dogs. But my husband can pick a nest out of a dense forest, six trees deep and twenty feet above overhead. Go figure. It has therefore happened once or twice that he has alerted me to a nest with tiny baby bird heads peeking out. During one such moment, I can recall being touched by the sight of a fragile little peeper squawking away for some nourishment. Of course this may not be altogether surprising; unsentimental though I may be on this topic, I am not, as it happens, made out of stone.

All of this information is neither here nor there, but hopefully provides some background as to my overall attitude about birds: I may not like them, but I can appreciate them as fellow members of the natural world. Quite simply, I prefer to live separately but harmoniously.
That being said, life—being the messy business that it is—does not always transpire in a manner which corresponds with our wishes.

The main issue at hand is that this “not being a bird person” came into direct conflict with my whole “trying to be a better person” when I was walking to meet my mother for lunch a few weeks back. It was, as per usual in Charleston August, 30 to 40 degrees above what could be deemed a comfortable temperature. As such, I was marveling at how hot it actually is in South Carolina. One would think that such a ponderance would get old, but much like how I spent the months from November through April in Boston lamenting how darn cold it was, it provides remarkably endless fodder for consideration. So as I was minding my own path of perspiration on my way to my lunch date, I noted an obstacle on the sidewalk ahead of me. As is likely implicit given that I do not possess my husband’s observation skills, the obstruction was in plain view. There, roasting in the Carolina sun was a bird. This bird was not moving, although he/she’s pumping little chest indicated visible sign of life. I walked closer, thinking maybe the bird was deaf, and would scoot on out when he or she felt the vibrations from my footsteps. No such luck.

This predicament posed quite a dilemma for me.

First of all, the idea of having to touch the bird was terrifying to me; I had no Purell or hand wipes on my person at that moment. Second of all, despite not being a bird person, I am also not a jerk. Well, more specifically, I do not like feeling guilty and I thought to walk away might induce some of that unfavorable emotion. Who leaves an allegedly wounded animal for dead on the side of the road? I stopped to consider how I might proceed in a manner that would enable me both not to touch the bird but also not to feel like a heartless slug.

It is all about me, after all.

I then did what I usually do in situations where swift and noble action is needed: I became alarmingly inefficient and irrational. In this case, I started speaking to my present company, the bird, about the foreseeable options we could explore. I started with trying to glean some background information: “Excuse me, why aren’t you moving?” He did not respond. It was at this pivotal moment that I inexplicably decided the bird was a he, although I never did acquire specific definitive proof as to his gender. I squatted down and moved closer. I was, in essence, in this bird’s bubble. Oddly, he did not go anywhere. Birds, I imagine, are just like any creature of nature—myself included—and ought to instinctively recoil whenever a stranger enters the bubble. But as this bird did not flinch, I quickly diagnosed him, “Oh no. I think you might be ill. Don’t worry, I will call for help.”

This last sentence was more for my own benefit than for his, because, as far as I could tell, he was not worried.

I called my veterinarian, the office of which was conveniently located less than a block away. Bonnie, one of the two women who work the front desk answered the phone. After bringing her up to date on my predicament, it was quickly established what had been a rather well-honed suspicion on my part: I know nothing about birds. Bonnie clearly needed more information for a proper diagnosis. Here was our conversation, in sum:

Bonnie: “What kind of bird is it?”

Maggie: “It is just a normal bird. You know—the kind you see around all the time.”

Bonnie: “A pigeon?”

Maggie: “No, not a pigeon.” Did she think I was an idiot? Who does not know what a pigeon looks like? “Smaller than a pigeon. A normal bird. A bird, bird.”

Bonnie: “A bird, bird?” Pause. “I need you to be more specific.”

Maggie: “Well he is not a seagull, or a crow, or, umm, a flamingo. Just a bird.”

Bonnie: “Oh, a sparrow.”

Maggie: “Yes, okay. A sparrow. That sounds right.”

Bonnie: “Well you are going to need to pick it up and bring it in.”

Maggie: “What?” Long pause. “Bonnie, I do not pick up birds. I mean I never have. I am not qualified.”

Bonnie: “Just avoid the beak. I would come myself but I cannot possibly leave the phones here. Just pick it up and bring it on in. Okay? Great” Click.

While I genuinely like Bonnie, I was slightly irked at her in this moment. I do not appreciate it when people who are specialized in a specific trade act blasé about their area of expertise by assuming everyone on the planet possesses what they consider base knowledge, but what I consider obscure and specific minutiae. I feel the same way when people start talking about the stock market at cocktail parties, throwing around acronyms as if they are in everybody’s daily vernacular. In any case, I find it sort of passive aggressive and definitely rude to make an honorable civilian (me) feel bad about being squeamish/terrified at the thought of handling a germy and potentially sick bird.

Still, I felt I was left with little alternative. Bonnie could clearly do no more to help me, what with the phones allegedly ringing off the hook at the vet office and all (I feel compelled to add here that the activity level in that particular office is decidedly un-bustling, but that could be bitterness talking). Feeling utterly foolish, I clumsily tried to pick the bird up.

Well wouldn’t you know it that the darn thing fluttered both his wings violently, wriggled out of my (rather slippery) grasp, hopped away on both feet and generally illustrated that everything was in physical working order. He then settled down a few feet away and did not otherwise suggest that he might be going anywhere. Now I was confused. If the bird was not injured, why was he just sitting there? Pride swallowed, I called Bonnie back.

Bonnie: “Do you have it? Are you on your way?”

Maggie: “Not exactly. He seems sort of fine. His feet and wings work and he will not let me pick him up. But he also is not flying away, just sort of sitting around.”

Bonnie: “Oh. Well than I am probably right then. I assumed I was.”

Maggie: “Right about what?”

Bonnie: “He just has a headache.”

What?

Maggie: “What?”

Bonnie: “Oh, you know a migraine. Brought on by the sun. He is just hot. If you brought him in, I would just have had him cool down in the back room with the air conditioning on and the lights dimmed and then he would be fine. But since you cannot get him in here, just try to shoo him into the shade so he can cool off a bit.”

Maggie: “Oh okay.” Pause. “Thank you.”

Bonnie: “Of course! Anytime.”

She spoke as though she had just exerted an enormous amount of effort. Her voice indicated that the whole scenario screamed success, yet I felt like a failure. Adding insult to injury, I was also perplexed as to the casual reference to the back room/spa retreat accommodations at my veterinarian’s office. Ought I to be concerned that I trust my dogs, my canine children for Pete’s sake, to the care of these fruitcakes? I stared at the bird. I did not love him.

Recalling my husband’s state of being when he has a migraine, I concluded that the bird likely did not love me either. I tried to remember the compassion I felt at the little bird squawking in its nest, and pictured my new acquaintance as that tiny baby bird. With a renewed spirit of generosity, I shooed him into the shade and out of the line of pedestrian traffic which he rather reluctantly (and indignantly?) allowed. Feeling somewhat heroic in my having gone above and beyond, I left to meet my mother for our now considerably delayed lunch date.

Post-lunch, and freshly Purelled up to my ears, I returned to check on Larry (yes, I named him—I told you I am not made of stone). He was gone. Worried that he may have been dragged off by some carnivorous squirrel, I scrutinized the vicinity for signs of bloodshed and concluded the area seemed to be battle-free. Rather than feeling pleased and virtuous as a good humanitarian might, I instead felt rather glum. Yes, Larry was likely fine. But, as with so many things in life, the situation left me confused; I wondered if my interference had been the impetus for his recovery or an obstacle along his path—the way I interpreted him to be on mine. Though I dislike birds, I disliked even more that the situation forced me to confront a personal demon only to leave me wondering if my actions in the face of adversity propelled me up the rungs of the ladder leading to personal improvement or if they were a mismanaged botch job that had me skidding back down the ladder of life in a sort of regression—Candyland style.

I will never know if Larry had a headache, if he was meditating, or if he was injured with some malady that went undetected by me and my historically paltry observational skills. Worst of all, I will never know if he was snatched up by some predatory beast when I took leave of him in his potentially compromised state. Did I do inflict upon him harm? Did my interference do him good? Neither?

In sum, I lacked closure.

My mother had assured me, over lunch, that I had done all I could and that nature would take its course one way or another. This advice, though perfectly sound, is only mildly comforting to a control freak prone to self-imposed guilt trips. I wanted answers. And yet I had to accept that there would be no definitive answers and that the only closure I would achieve would be just that—acceptance. Since Larry is unlikely to friend me on Facebook, no matter what kind of condition he is or is not in, then that acceptance could only come from one place: from myself.

So another life lesson is learned in the unlikeliest of places: sometimes you just have to trust that the best you can do, while it might not be the best that there is to be done, is still the best that you can do--and that makes it enough. Sometimes, perhaps often, you may not have the opportunity to understand how you impacted another, and you just have to accept and hope your good intentions were received in the vein with which they were delivered.

Moving forward, I plan to hold a more generous and loving attitude towards birds. Additionally, I will be better prepared to deal with whatever obstacles cross my path—after all, I now know I can call on Bonnie to provide a safe and cool place to lie down and recover.