Sunday Morning Serenity

If I were male—and a cardinal—I might be a little full of myself, what with my bright red feathers and crest, a mysterious black mask around my face. I might tell myself that the wrens and the blackbirds were jealous of my star power.

But that’s not the way of the cardinal. I’ve read that he is fiercely territorial in spring but not in winter. At my own winter birdfeeders—my first ever—I’ve observed him to be an amiable sort, waiting his turn, sharing the birdseed bounty, never muscling the finches and sparrows to take more than his fair share. I’ve also read that he feeds the first brood while his mate builds the nest. In other words, the cardinal is a modern husband and father who believes in sharing domestic responsibilities. (Just because he’s a looker, that doesn’t mean he gets to ignore the kids when he lands back at the nest after conducting business out in the field.)

There is a way of things in nature that I find consoling in stressful times. Like now. The past few days have been damp and gray. I’m working all weekend, trying to catch up on some deadlines, and anxiously watching weather reports because my parents are due for their second COVID vaccine on Tuesday. Not much to get happy about (at least, not until they’re safely vaccinated). But then yesterday, as I returned from my only outing—a trip to the mailbox—I was surprised and happy to see that, while I was fretting over deadlines and the weather and anything else I could think of, my daffodils had popped up. It was time to bloom, so they did. Just like that, little sunny yellow trumpets in my front yard.

So much of the world we live in right now seems unnatural—from misinformation to isolation. Some of it’s a winter of our own making. But the daffodils are blooming. Sooner or later, a cardinal will drop by and color my world. Nature will take its course. Spring is coming.