Dear Robin

Photo credit: Jan Meeus

I sat on the ground digging up my lawn with a trowel. I didn't feel the soil crumbling though my hands, the blades of grass sliding through my fingers, the soft breeze ruffling my hair or the sun warming my back. I didn't hear the commotion or your anxious calls. Instead, I was plugged into my headphones as an audiobook took me to foreign lands and intrigued me with complicated relationships. If I'd only sat up and taken the time to smell the damp earth and appreciated the beauty of my garden instead of considering my work a trial to endure, things could have been different.

It was when you finally landed next to me and I saw the fear in your eyes that I pressed pause. You flew a short distance and called to me. I ignored you, but you persisted, flying back to me and then a short distance away, calling out in alarm.

I glared at you, ‘What is wrong with you today? Can't you see I'm busy?'

In the end, I put my trowel down and really looked at you. Sensing that you now had my attention, you continued to fly to me and then further away beckoning me down the garden to the ivy tree. I followed as your cries became louder and more urgent. At the tree, I stood and stared, 'What? What's the matter? I can't see anything.' I probably hadn't seen anything for a long time.

Then bravely you flew closer to the ivy and a hissing sound emerged, followed by a furry, ginger paw.

You flew in close once more, and the beast swiped again. A cat. A cat in the ivy tree. 'Oh, no. Is your nest in there?'

You flew back to my feet and shrieked. I grabbed a large stick and poked at the furious cat in the tree as you valiantly battled its deadly paws. Together we fought, and after a few minutes we drove off the intruder.

I wish I could say that together we had won a great victory, but as I looked into the tree at the bloody mangled bodies of your chicks I heaved, sick to my stomach with shame. If I had been living in and for the moment, maybe we could have triumphed. My lesson was hard, but as the sound of your mournful cries echoed around the garden until dusk, I knew it was you who had paid the price.

The next day you forgave me and as I gardened, you sat with me and ate the bugs as I unearthed them. I appreciate all that you showed me that day. My sight, hearing, smell and touch have been restored.

I am forever grateful for your companionship and the talks we have as we garden together. Next year, I hope you will introduce me to your new brood.

I love you, my friend.

Yours,

Jaqui