Have you ever been aware of a small red breasted bird appearing suddenly, watching you intensely for a few moments and then flying away hastily into the hedgerow? Its almost as if this little bird is a researcher of human nature, taking notes to add to their understanding of how we work, play, think, rest and love.
I tend to address the bright chested birds that cross my path as Mr Robin*. They remind me of a dear, old friend and I've come to consider an encounter as an unexpected visit from a loved one. A visit that you haven’t planned, or asked for, but somehow you know, deep down, that you really need. This small, delicate, yet courageous bird seems to possess a wise and gentle soul, experienced in life’s ups and downs, well versed in the complexities of our relationships and connections with ourselves and others. A confidant with a patient ear and a generous heart.
Looking back, I never used to stop to notice the small things like robins. Youthful days passed in a flash of excitement and adrenaline, no time to take an interest in something insignificant that drifted quietly in the periphery of busy, action packed days. There were just people to talk to and places to be, deadlines to meet and to do lists to finish.
Why didn’t I get up early to watch as the sky was painted in a multitude of pastel colours at dawn, like a pack of 80s 'love hearts' sweets?
Or stop for a moment and strain to hear the bark of a fox at midnight, rather than run to catch the bus on the way home from a late night party?
Why didn’t I pause from digging up ground elder and nettles in the neglected flower bed to wish the inquisitive robin, perched on the handle of the garden spade, a friendly good morning?
The answer was simple. I didn’t have time.
During lockdown I found I had more time and spent a lot of it in the garden, lifting huge drifts of turf to make wide generous borders full of flowers and shrubs. That’s when I started to notice a regular friend at my side. He was always there, everyday, so close that I could almost reach out and touch those bright scarlet feathers, brave and inquisitive, watching and listening. Occasionally Mr Robin was joined by an even more courageous female blackbird, Mrs B, with dishevelled looking brown tail feathers from no doubt a recent encounter with a local prowling cat. She would stare at me with one beady yellow eye as she hopped over newly dug earth to stand next to the trowel and then, when lunch was revealed, dash off under the hedge with a mouthful of still wriggling worms. I started to wish them both good morning and share my wandering thoughts.
I was initially fully convinced that my regular gardening friends arrived by my side simply on the promise of grubs being prised from the earth as part of another overenthusiastic, albeit not very successful, weeding frenzy. But it became important and special to me. I looked forward to seeing them each day and sharing a few quiet moments with these wild creatures in our own little world.
I started to notice Robins appearing everywhere, unexpected and seemingly always when I was in need of quiet reassurance and support.
There he was, pecking at the fallen leaves under the front wheels of my car at the far end of a sleepy car park at dusk after visiting a dying loved one in hospital.
There he was again, perching on the arm of a wooden bench looking out to sea with me on a sunny winter morning, anticipating crumbs from my picnic lunch, as I wrestled with the fall out of a recent family estrangement.
And there he was again, scuttling around in the dead branches and leaf litter at the edge of a forest plantation, a companion on a gentle walk to clear my head and decide whether to resign from my job.
Was it just coincidence or serendipity?
The more I looked, the more I saw but despite wanting to stop and take notice, I just had to keep moving on with my day.
I needed more time.
And then, one day, came the realisation. When a robin appeared and I actually gave it my full attention, even just for a moment, something magical happened. I felt totally and utterly compelled to make a connection with this tiny wild creature. Sometimes I just paused and watched, other times I talked to him, asked him how he'd been doing on cold, winter days, shared my joys and fears, offered him some food if I had it and then wished him farewell as he flew away. Occasionally I tried to take photographs as he hopped around my feet but he was not interested in posing for a portrait or staying still for long enough to be captured in perpetuity. He wanted my full attention and I owed him that for showing up to see me, again and again.
Slowly, over time, those small, seemingly insignificant moments changed me, made me look outwards and up to the skies instead of always inwards and down at my feet. What I had considered rationale and normal, a small bird seeking the promise of an easy meal, didn’t quite seem to be the whole story.
An encounter with a robin became synonymous for me with serendipity, not just a beautiful word or an ethereal concept but something real yet still puzzling.
I now have more questions than answers.
Less certainty, more curiosity.
More awareness that everything is connected.
I started to make time.
I took more interest in folklore, where robins are often considered as messengers, appearing to offer guidance and wisdom from those who we love, now resting in the spirit world. I took more notice with all my senses, closing my eyes to try and feel the vibration of tiny wings as he arrives unexpected in the blurred edges of an otherwise inconsequential day.
With every new moment in the presence of this special little bird, something inside me shifts a little. Its as if a small portal into a liminal world opens and for the briefest of moments we, Mr Robin and I, can look into each others eyes and communicate, silently, gently, completely.
What is the Robin trying to tell me? I can't put it into words. But I feel it.
Its like a wave of grace that washes over you and soothes the soul.
A gentle hand leading you away from the headlight glare of the demands of the day.
A space to rest into the muted tones of the edges of the universe, where the ticking of the clock stops.
For an unmeasurable moment I'm held there, motionless, suspended, safe, wondering and questioning. The red-breasted Timelord has arrived again and whisked me away in his Tardis of birdsong, driven on through time and space by a soft gentle breeze.
Mr Robin takes his leave and darts away, his work complete. The world slowly comes back into focus, and I carry on with my day.
I have been given the gift of time.
Thank you for reading and I wish you all many special moments with a feathery friend.
Helen x
*While I refer to my encounters being with Mr Robin, there are no doubt many different robins that I encounter along the way and some may be female although I'm not sure if I could even tell the difference!