On Getting my Buntings Back

After my husband died last September, I kind of let some things go. And I’m not just talking about my hair.

I was suddenly so encumbered with enormous new responsibilities – and drowning under so much paperwork – I fell down on some of the little duties that might have sustained me, even brought me joy, through that terrible period.

One, in particular? Birding. While I kept my feeders full – sort of – my efforts were perfunctory. Rote. I was just going through the motions. I didn’t really watch the birds, didn’t follow fall migration, didn’t use my Merlin app to identify the various warbles wafting through my yard. I barely even heard them.

I was always too tired, too frantic, or too numb to notice. And then winter came, and by the time my workday finally ended, it was too dark to sit outside.

Blah blah blah. Excuses, excuses. The point is, I dropped the ball on my birds.

And, reader, I got my comeuppance!

A few weeks ago, I started noticing posts on Facebook, captivating photos with captions like the following:

“I know it’s spring, because the painted buntings are back!”

“The painted buntings have returned! Hallelujah!”

“Look at this beauty! God broke the mold when He made the painted bunting!”

So many posts. So many photos. So many painted buntings…

And I hadn’t seen a single one in my yard.

A little history: When I first started watching birds, many years ago, the painted bunting was my white whale. I know that’s a weird label to slap on a tiny, technicolor land creature, but you know what I mean. I was obsessed!

And it took me a very long time to lure painted buntings to my yard. There was much experimentation with birdseed (white millet is key) and other attractions (a water element helps), and even recorded birdsong (yes, I was shameless), but finally, about six or seven springs ago, I was triumphant in my pursuit!

I vividly remember the evening it happened. I was sitting on my patio, talking on the phone to my mom in Alabama – I believe it was our Sunday Wine Chat – when something bright caught the corner of my eye. I slowly turned my head toward the feeders. No sudden moves. I could barely breathe.  “Oh, Mom,” I whispered. “He’s finally here…  And he’s GLORIOUS.”  Some tears were shed, which may have been a wine thing, but I don’t think so.

After that, I had buntings a ‘plenty in my yard. And for the past two or three years, I’d even had them over-wintering here. As in, year-round occupation. Full-time residency. I never got used to them. They never became ho-hum. I never stopped being awestruck by these diminutive marvels of grace and beauty, and I never took them for granted.

But then Jeff died. And my whole world went dark. Suddenly, birding was… for the birds.

And while I wasn’t paying attention, the painted buntings disappeared from my yard. I hadn’t even noticed.

Until the Facebook posts started. And a raging case of FOMO kicked in. (Some people have a “fear of missing out” on parties. For me, it’s birds.) It felt good to care again. Maybe, just maybe, I was getting my mojo back. Sometimes, it takes a little FOMO to recover your mojo.

Thus began a new quest. A mission. I would get my buntings back or bust!

It wouldn’t be easy. The feeder that held my white millet seed was filthy. Disgusting. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cleaned it. When I looked closer, I was horrified to find that all the little dispenser holes were clogged. I’d been filling the feeder, but hardly any of the seed was getting through to the birds. No wonder they’d left. I had neglected them! Starved them!

I keep my white millet seed in a big, fancy “squirrel buster” feeder. It was so gross, it really needed to be run through a carwash – deluxe level – but instead I took it apart, soaked it in the bathtub, then scrubbed it within an inch of its life. I even had to take an ice pick to some of those gunky holes, but when I was finished, the feeder was like new! I filled it with white millet, hung it back up, and waited.

And waited and waited.

Days later, still no buntings. I reminded myself that Rome wasn’t built in a day. That good things come to those who wait. That patience is a virtue.

These cliches weren’t cutting it with me. I needed to step up my game.

Remember how I mentioned a “water element”? I once had a lovely bird bath – a Mother’s Day gift from Jeff and Amelia – but it was destroyed by the one-two punch of a tropical storm/raccoon attack a few years ago, and I hadn’t replaced it. I wasn’t in the mood to shop – or spend money, frankly – so when I spied our old chiminea against the house, I had an idea. It was too heavy to lift – Jeff was the resident lifter – but I managed to drag it over near the feeders, plopped a large ceramic bowl full of water on the top, and voila… instant water element! Would it work? Who knew?

In bed that night, I was reading “Signs: The Secret Language of the Universe” – a book dozens of people have recommended since Jeff’s death – and my skeptical mind was, as always, resisting its premise – that “signs” are a thing, that the universe has a “secret language,” etc. – while my soul was guzzling it like so much water in the Sahara.

According to the author – Laura Lee Jackson, who fancies herself a medium – signs from beyond aren’t just real, they are everywhere, if only we know how to recognize them. And not only that – we can actually ask for specific signs, and they will come to us.

Again, I was on the fence. (In case y’all hadn’t noticed, the fence is my comfort zone.) But it was 1:45 am, and I thought What the Heck. I prayed to the God Energy, my Spirit Guides, and my Loved Ones on the Other Side – my  “Team of Light” as Laura Lee calls it – to send me a painted

bunting, and to do it soon. I bargained with my Light Team: “If you send me a painted bunting tomorrow, it will be a sign unto me. I will believe in all of it. The Love that Connects Us, Spirit Guides, the Other Side, the Secret Language of the Universe… the whole shebang.

Well, reader, I fear you won’t believe me, but it happened. The next morning – Sunday morning – I was washing my breakfast dishes when I glanced out the window and saw her. Not the flashing, dazzling, multi-crayon-colored male that comes to mind when you hear the words “painted bunting”… but something that felt even more right in that moment: a little green female.

She sat there on my spanking-clean feeder, next to my chiminea/water element, casually nibbling her white millet seed. Delicate and fragile and so very beautiful. I knew there would be a boy in the yard soon. Probably several boys, and more girls, and eventually, some juveniles.

The painted buntings were back.

Was it a sign? I’m still not entirely sold. I long to be all-in, but my fence sitting runs deep.

All I know is that for today, it’s enough.