Carmen, that little chap in the orange waistcoat is getting awfully comfortable around you. A bit closer today. Right beside you tomorrow. Give him another week and he’ll be eyeing your coffee as if to say, “Where’s mine, then?”
You’ve reminded us of a robin who kept us company for a while. He’d appear whenever Tadeo went out for his walk and stay nearby, taking everything in. Tadeo started by waving hello. Within a week he was telling the bird about his problems with his boots. The little fellow had more patience than the rest of us.
Dead as a doornail, apparently
One afternoon we sat beside a fallen log. Tadeo gave it a couple of pats and announced that it was no use to anyone anymore. He was wearing his new hat and felt qualified to pass judgement on the entire universe.
“No life left here, my friends. All finished.”
Just then a beetle came out of a crack and marched across his boot. Fungi were growing beneath the bark, moss covered the top and little roots were making the most of the damp soil. The robin hopped down to look for bugs among the leaves. Tadeo moved his foot and we absolutely lost it.
“For somewhere that’s finished, it’s bloody crowded.”
That’s our philosophy, Carmen. The deadest-looking thing in the woods can be teeming with life. Wood breaks down, its nutrients return to the soil and other living things use them. We see it happening every day. It makes it rather hard to look at something and say: that’s it, all over, nothing left.
The cosmic gravy includes rabbit poo
From a roaring flame to a rabbit dropping, everything takes part in that movement of matter and energy. We call it the gravy of the universe. Energy changes form and passes from place to place. Matter finds new company. Nobody asked Tadeo’s permission to keep the whole glorious racket going.
Sunlight feeds the grass, the rabbit scoffs it and leaves a neat little contribution. Decomposers get to work and nutrients return to the soil. You see a poo. We see the woodland kitchen still going strong, with an assistant who refuses to wear trousers.
Tadeo looked at one little pellet with newfound respect. Quite a lot of respect. We had to take his teaspoon away.
“Just because it’s part of the universe doesn’t mean you have to eat it, mate.”
Could your robin carry something of someone who lived before? We like to believe so. There’s plenty of room in our hearts for the thought that life changes its outfit and finds ways to say hello again. That’s how we brownies feel our way through the world, with muddy feet and our hearts wide open.
We also know these birds approach people who disturb the soil because worms and grubs turn up. Clever little sods. A visitor can be hungry and make your day at the same time. Lunch doesn’t make the meeting any less lovely.
So, Carmen, if seeing him brings someone you love to mind, let that memory sit with you. Tell the bird something daft. Let him decide how close he wants to come. Smiling at the thought of someone is a lovely way of loving them, too.
We kept taking walks with Tadeo and his companion. One morning the robin landed on his new hat. Tadeo stood perfectly still, quite overcome, while the rest of us held our breath.
The bird took a dump.
“Right! Well, if someone sent you, tell them the hat was bloody new!”
He laughed so hard we all ended up sitting on the ground. The next morning Tadeo was the first one there to see his friend.
Wearing his old hat.
