Amusing today to watch a squirrel that is clearly not as agile as some, scrambling about on our feeders and looking most uncomfortable. Mind you, they're nothing if not persistent, these squirrels: uncomfortable he may have been, and on one occasion he slipped off altogether quite spectacularly, but in the end he got his breakfast, and I hadn't the heart to rush out there shouting and throwing sticks.
For a while this morning the squirrel baffle actually did what it was supposed to. Yesterday I moved a planter that the squirrels had used as a launch pad for their leaps onto the feeding station. So this morning the squirrel made several attempts to climb the pole from the bottom, each time stymied by the baffle and having to return to ground level. He then climbed a nearby bush, and tried to get to the end of an overhanging branch that pointed out in the general direction of the feeders. Squirrels are quite light, and this one was smaller than some, but even so the branch was never going to be strong enough!
So the squirrel then tried a flying leap up from the lawn. He cleared the baffle, grabbed the pole, couldn't keep his grip, and we were treated to the sight of the spectacular fall mentioned above. He just tried again, and this time managed (just) to hold on. He climbed to the top of the feeding pole, balanced there looking a bit vulnerable as it swayed in the wind, then out of the feeders hanging there selected the only one with a squirrel-proof guard around it. He scrambled down that, and hung on to the base, allowing a few seeds to trickle out, which he was able to consume. Then he fell off again.
Undaunted, back up he went, and this time selected the other feeders. This was highly entertaining viewing, but - as mentioned before - the presence of a squirrel on the feeding station keeps the birds away, for the most part, and so I continue to feel I ought to discourage them.
Thursday, 23 January 2014
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
Waste
Lights drift upon the black water,
as, viscous as oil, the stream flows;
passing silently under the bridges,
soft and secret and splashless it goes.
A man walks the cobbled embankment
passing under occasional lamps,
the shadows rise up to walk with him,
brought to life in the chills and the damps.
But don’t ask him what he remembers,
don’t ask him where he is bound;
it’s all water flowed under the bridges,
with no story, no crying, no sound.
Then the stillness is suddenly fractured,
wings are whipping and whirling, gulls cry:
with a thump and a rumble of diesel,
yellow hazards against the night sky,
men are busily clearing the rubbish,
briskly emptying barrows and bins -
silver packaging sparkles, glows briefly,
must be gone as the new day begins.
So metal jaws seize it and swallow,
sad remains of a time that is gone;
the man stops and he watches a moment,
then he turns up his collar, walks on.
We dance a short while and we sparkle,
and it seems our lives matter and glow,
but watch the lights fade in the water,
see them drift down and die in its flow.
So I’ll walk on, duck under the arches,
pretty soon I’ll be lost from your view;
leaving something perhaps of an echo
of the man whom you thought that you knew.
A new day is dawning without me,
where faith fights new battles with doubt,
where water flows smooth in the sunlight,
with the lights on the cobbles switched out.
as, viscous as oil, the stream flows;
passing silently under the bridges,
soft and secret and splashless it goes.
A man walks the cobbled embankment
passing under occasional lamps,
the shadows rise up to walk with him,
brought to life in the chills and the damps.
But don’t ask him what he remembers,
don’t ask him where he is bound;
it’s all water flowed under the bridges,
with no story, no crying, no sound.
Then the stillness is suddenly fractured,
wings are whipping and whirling, gulls cry:
with a thump and a rumble of diesel,
yellow hazards against the night sky,
men are busily clearing the rubbish,
briskly emptying barrows and bins -
silver packaging sparkles, glows briefly,
must be gone as the new day begins.
So metal jaws seize it and swallow,
sad remains of a time that is gone;
the man stops and he watches a moment,
then he turns up his collar, walks on.
We dance a short while and we sparkle,
and it seems our lives matter and glow,
but watch the lights fade in the water,
see them drift down and die in its flow.
So I’ll walk on, duck under the arches,
pretty soon I’ll be lost from your view;
leaving something perhaps of an echo
of the man whom you thought that you knew.
A new day is dawning without me,
where faith fights new battles with doubt,
where water flows smooth in the sunlight,
with the lights on the cobbles switched out.
Tuesday, 21 January 2014
Man versus Squirrel (2)
The neighbours probably think I'm mad, and will start to look away nervously, I fancy, when they meet me in the street. Clapping hands and throwing sticks seem no longer to have any impact on our squirrels, so I have taken to creeping up on them (I can usually make it to within about two or three feet), and then shouting or growling very loudly. It certainly alarms them and they beat a hasty retreat, but I expect it's alarming my neighbours too.
The squirrels have decided to broaden their diet. They were happily eating sunflower seeds and leaving the other things I put out, but since I moved the nyger seed to hang from a post by the back hedge - a safer and easier spot for the squirrels - at least one squirrel has happily switched to that. I only hung it there because this was the one feeder the squirrels always ignored!
I have moved all my feeders round, and it's been interesting to see the impact of this. The nut feeder is now on the side of the feeding station closest to the house, rather than the side closest to the wood. So far as I'm aware, the great spotted woodpecker has not visited since I moved it . . . I wonder whether it will start back once it's used to the changed positions? We had enormous numbers of finches today, with the great oak to the back of next door full of them, all very noisy. They are mostly chaffinches and goldfinches, plus a few siskins and the odd greenfinch. We get bullfinches, too, but they go their own way and don't flock with the others. Twice recently we've been blessed with redpolls, but only Ann has seen them, they're never there when I'm looking out!
Back to the squirrels. Tomorrow I'll buy a squirrel feeder, and stock it with maize, and see how they go for that. I'm not unhappy about feeding them, it's just that the birds keep away when the squirrels are about. Mind you, the other day a blue tit flew rapidly across to the feeding station, having - I think - completely failed to notice the squirrel that was hanging there grabbing the sunflower seed, and the squirrel was sufficiently surprised by this direct approach to make a dash for the trees. So direct action by the birds could probably see the squirrels off, but the thought of that raises disturbing images worthy of Hitchcock.
The squirrels have decided to broaden their diet. They were happily eating sunflower seeds and leaving the other things I put out, but since I moved the nyger seed to hang from a post by the back hedge - a safer and easier spot for the squirrels - at least one squirrel has happily switched to that. I only hung it there because this was the one feeder the squirrels always ignored!
I have moved all my feeders round, and it's been interesting to see the impact of this. The nut feeder is now on the side of the feeding station closest to the house, rather than the side closest to the wood. So far as I'm aware, the great spotted woodpecker has not visited since I moved it . . . I wonder whether it will start back once it's used to the changed positions? We had enormous numbers of finches today, with the great oak to the back of next door full of them, all very noisy. They are mostly chaffinches and goldfinches, plus a few siskins and the odd greenfinch. We get bullfinches, too, but they go their own way and don't flock with the others. Twice recently we've been blessed with redpolls, but only Ann has seen them, they're never there when I'm looking out!
Back to the squirrels. Tomorrow I'll buy a squirrel feeder, and stock it with maize, and see how they go for that. I'm not unhappy about feeding them, it's just that the birds keep away when the squirrels are about. Mind you, the other day a blue tit flew rapidly across to the feeding station, having - I think - completely failed to notice the squirrel that was hanging there grabbing the sunflower seed, and the squirrel was sufficiently surprised by this direct approach to make a dash for the trees. So direct action by the birds could probably see the squirrels off, but the thought of that raises disturbing images worthy of Hitchcock.
Friday, 17 January 2014
Man versus Squirrel
I really don't mind feeding the local squirrels as well as the birds that visit our garden, but I do resent it when they monopolise the feeding station, as the presence of even one squirrel on the feeders will prevent any birds from visiting (though squirrels feeding on the bits dropped underneath the feeders do not deter the birds at all). So I have put in a number of the supposedly squirrel-proof solutions to the problem. The sight yesterday of a squirrel standing on the squirrel baffle (which supposedly prevents the animal from climbing up the pole from which the feeders hang) in order to reach inside the squirrel-proof cage around the feeder, made me a bit cross. I chucked a piece of kindling wood at said squirrel, as there was a pile of it by our back door. To my surprise, it hit him, though not hard, as it was some distance away. He looked round at me, seemed to shrug his shoulders in a disdainful fashion, and carried on eating. Defeat duly admitted by disconsolate human.
Mind you, things are hotting up in the squirrel world just now, prompted no doubt by the comparatively mild winter we've had so far. Later in the day any number of squirrels - well, seven or eight, anyway - seemed to be engaged in something of a running battle through the treetops behind our house. Much shouting and screaming, and amazing agility as the creatures hurtled through the trees. It's my own fault, I suppose - they are now so well fed, and they have so much energy to work off. Certainly, it was amazing to watch them!
In fact, feats of agility of this sort are a feature of the mating season, which for grey squirrels is now in full swing. Squirrels produce two broods in a year, and the first of these is in the early spring, so mating - and no doubt fighting over possible mates - happens right now, whenever the weather is mild enough to encourage it. It's been mild nearly all winter so far, though the storms and rain over recent weeks won't have encouraged the squirrels. This week, though, things are much calmer meteorologically, and therefore, it would seem, considerably less calm in the treetops!
Mind you, things are hotting up in the squirrel world just now, prompted no doubt by the comparatively mild winter we've had so far. Later in the day any number of squirrels - well, seven or eight, anyway - seemed to be engaged in something of a running battle through the treetops behind our house. Much shouting and screaming, and amazing agility as the creatures hurtled through the trees. It's my own fault, I suppose - they are now so well fed, and they have so much energy to work off. Certainly, it was amazing to watch them!
In fact, feats of agility of this sort are a feature of the mating season, which for grey squirrels is now in full swing. Squirrels produce two broods in a year, and the first of these is in the early spring, so mating - and no doubt fighting over possible mates - happens right now, whenever the weather is mild enough to encourage it. It's been mild nearly all winter so far, though the storms and rain over recent weeks won't have encouraged the squirrels. This week, though, things are much calmer meteorologically, and therefore, it would seem, considerably less calm in the treetops!
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
Advent Confession
Verses recently written, but in my thoughts set some twenty years ago, and (of course) at the beginning of Advent.
I have always wanted it all to be true,
and have always been afraid it might not be.
So here I am, on the last Saturday in November,
standing under a sad sky, halfway down the field,
looking up at the half tumbled dry stone wall,
the mess of posts and fence wire,
the busy lane and then the church beyond,
darkly brooding as ever, atop its little hill.
I am on my way home from a good brisk walk with the dog,
but now I shall have to get on with things.
Too far to see, but the church notice board bears my name,
and perhaps I ought to feel a little more sure
about what it is I am selling.
Anyway, here I stand, quite newly arrived here,
and with the new liturgical year about to begin,
the Advent candle ring dressed and in place,
the altar and pulpit draped with purple cloth.
It has been a long journey to get to this place,
a long time spent wrestling with fears and uncertainties.
I seem to have so many questions that lack an easy answer,
that keep me awake on nights, interrupt my prayerful thoughts -
and yet I find also there is always the sense of God,
not present exactly, not in clear focus,
I cannot claim any blinding light or sounding voice, descending dove . . .
just the sense, and it is still there today -
of someone who does not let go of me, who is constantly catching my sleeve,
who despite it all goes on tugging me into saying yes.
Wednesday, 8 January 2014
January
Driving home, hard day, horizon ahead smudged and tearful,
all light and life leached out of it,
everywhere so dreary and it’s hardly four o’clock;
yet somewhere within the jumble in my head
a moment from a magical past drifts into focus,
a bright and shining star, that once I watched in wonder,
the kind my childhood self imagined
kings bearing gifts might follow.
And I can’t help but scan tonight’s grey and liquid sky
just in case I might glimpse it again.
For maybe then I’d find
those old stories I heard are true after all,
and know, even on a dismal night like this
that I really am heading for home.
all light and life leached out of it,
everywhere so dreary and it’s hardly four o’clock;
yet somewhere within the jumble in my head
a moment from a magical past drifts into focus,
a bright and shining star, that once I watched in wonder,
the kind my childhood self imagined
kings bearing gifts might follow.
And I can’t help but scan tonight’s grey and liquid sky
just in case I might glimpse it again.
For maybe then I’d find
those old stories I heard are true after all,
and know, even on a dismal night like this
that I really am heading for home.
Sunday, 5 January 2014
Some words at the Epiphany
. . . prepared for a service I shall attend tomorrow:
Epiphany is a word that means discovery, revelation, the penny dropping, the eureka moment: to have an epiphany is to realise the truth of something in a way you haven't before, to discover something new about yourself or about the world. Today, January 6th, the Feast of the Epiphany, celebrates Jesus shown to the world, as he is shown to the wise men from the east who came looking for him; and the Epiphany season that begins today goes on to tell of many more revealing moments - at his baptism, his first miracle, and more besides.
The man Jesus was born a Jew, and raised in the Jewish faith. He called fellow Jews to be his disciples, and he taught in Jewish synagogues and the Jewish temple. He had some critical words for some of his fellow Jews, like the Pharisees, but he was never critical of the Jewish faith itself. The prophecy which suggested that the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem told of the man God would send to 'rule over my people Israel'. And the wise men from the east, with their star charts and their observations of the night sky had come to find the one born to be King of the Jews.
So that is where Jesus belongs, culturally, historically, geographically, linguistically. In Palestine, and in the Jewish nation, and in the Jewish faith. So we might ask - how come he didn't stay there? As we begin to consider that question, one fact to note from the outset is that these men from the east weren't Jews but Gentiles; and the story of their visit is told to symbolise this vital piece of good news: that here in Bethlehem God has done something new to change the destiny not just of the Jewish nation but of the world. And the gifts offered by the travellers are symbols of this new act of God: gold, frankincense and myrrh.
Sacred gifts of mystic meaning, as one Epiphany hymn puts it. Gold is obvious enough - the child is a king, and gold is a king's coinage. The child the wise men came to see will take authority and exercise power; he will rule over his people - though his route to kingship and the throne he claims are very different from the story of King Herod. But still, Herod would have seen the point of gold, and frankincense too he’d have understood, for there's always something priestly about becoming a king. Monarchs are anointed as they are crowned, as a sign their kingship is held in sacred trust from God. The role of a priest is to stand between the people and God, God and the people, and one word that describes this is pontifex, meaning bridge builder. Jesus is pontifex maximus, our great high priest, and he will rebuild the bridge we've broken.
But for me a chill falls across the proceedings when the third gift of myrrh is offered. Myrrh makes for a costly and special gift, but there’s no escaping the fact that it's also the stuff of death. For me the words quoted by Paul in Philippians chapter 2 stand at the heart of my understanding of discipleship and service: 'He emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.' This was what it would mean for Jesus to be king and priest: not the acquisition of status and power, but the letting go of these things. In the Letter to the Hebrews we read that Jesus is both the perfect priest, and also the perfect sacrifice. He offers himself for the sins of the people, to die so that they - that we - might live.
So gold, frankincense and myrrh are gifts with power and symbolic resonance, but it's the myrrh that most deeply expresses the crossing of human boundaries and the breaking of human barriers. For myrrh stands for the self-giving love that can break into our hearts, and for the God who in his gift to us places no limits on his love, loving as a Father loves even the most wayward of his children. The wise men bow before God’s only Son, who will reveal himself as the living expression of that boundless love.
So how come he didn't stay in his Jewish setting? However precious the birth we've just celebrated, it was his death that led those who saw him and heard him and followed him, and were changed by him, to conclude that what this man had done was for the whole world, and to acclaim him the King of Love, whose kingdom has no human boundaries. The Church founded in his name has the holy task of enabling that love to take root and grow and flower in all cultures and climes. This child the wise men hailed with gold, frankincense and myrrh can never be the a possession of any one race or culture. He's a Jew but he's not contained within what is Jewish; he sometimes feels very western and European, but he's not ours either to keep for ourselves. When the Gospel is made an instrument of imperialism or colonialism that gospel has lost its truth. Jesus is ours as a gift, and his Gospel must shared as a gift, humbly and lovingly - a gift to set all people free.
And wherever the Church may be, it should always bear the symbols of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Gold because we too are kings - Jesus shares with us his royal state and authority, and the secret of his throne, when he tells us: 'Let the one who would be greatest among you become the servant of all.' And wherever the Church is a servant Church it claims its share in the kingship of Christ.
Frankincense because we're all priests: for all who serve and follow Christ share a holy call to speak of God to the world, and to speak for the world to God. We are to pray without ceasing, and to witness with constant zeal. To listen to God, and pass on what we hear; to listen to the world, and to make our neighbour's need our constant prayer. And wherever the Church is doing this, in any language or culture, it's sharing and communicating the priesthood of Christ.
But myrrh too must be our sign, for we're called to die daily to sin, and to take up our cross as we follow our Lord. Our baptism joins us to the death of Christ and joins us also to his risen life and to the new wine of his Holy Spirit. Discipleship requires of us a dying, a laying down of the old things, so there can then be the rebirth that is Christ alive within us, as we promise and pray 'Lord, you only will I serve; you are Lord of all my life.' We may never manage to achieve what we intend or resolve, but we must always aim to offer all we can. As Christina Rossetti wrote, 'What I can I give him - give my heart'. Wherever the Church is really striving to be Christ-filled and Christ-centred, setting aside any desire for worldly status or security, then the death of Christ is being proclaimed, until he comes again.
And sisters and brothers, the amazing and wonderful thing is that our Church that is so often so broken, so unsatisfactory and even so sinful nonetheless is doing all these things in so many places: African places and Asian places and South American places, and even European places too. The wise men were right - the birth of this child was something very special, that could not go unmarked; they trekked across the desert to lay their royal gifts before the one whose love can transform every human heart, for in Bethlehem they found God's free and loving gift to the world he can never cease to love. May your heart and mine receive that love tonight, and may our lives proclaim it in the world.
Epiphany is a word that means discovery, revelation, the penny dropping, the eureka moment: to have an epiphany is to realise the truth of something in a way you haven't before, to discover something new about yourself or about the world. Today, January 6th, the Feast of the Epiphany, celebrates Jesus shown to the world, as he is shown to the wise men from the east who came looking for him; and the Epiphany season that begins today goes on to tell of many more revealing moments - at his baptism, his first miracle, and more besides.
The man Jesus was born a Jew, and raised in the Jewish faith. He called fellow Jews to be his disciples, and he taught in Jewish synagogues and the Jewish temple. He had some critical words for some of his fellow Jews, like the Pharisees, but he was never critical of the Jewish faith itself. The prophecy which suggested that the Messiah would be born in Bethlehem told of the man God would send to 'rule over my people Israel'. And the wise men from the east, with their star charts and their observations of the night sky had come to find the one born to be King of the Jews.
So that is where Jesus belongs, culturally, historically, geographically, linguistically. In Palestine, and in the Jewish nation, and in the Jewish faith. So we might ask - how come he didn't stay there? As we begin to consider that question, one fact to note from the outset is that these men from the east weren't Jews but Gentiles; and the story of their visit is told to symbolise this vital piece of good news: that here in Bethlehem God has done something new to change the destiny not just of the Jewish nation but of the world. And the gifts offered by the travellers are symbols of this new act of God: gold, frankincense and myrrh.
Sacred gifts of mystic meaning, as one Epiphany hymn puts it. Gold is obvious enough - the child is a king, and gold is a king's coinage. The child the wise men came to see will take authority and exercise power; he will rule over his people - though his route to kingship and the throne he claims are very different from the story of King Herod. But still, Herod would have seen the point of gold, and frankincense too he’d have understood, for there's always something priestly about becoming a king. Monarchs are anointed as they are crowned, as a sign their kingship is held in sacred trust from God. The role of a priest is to stand between the people and God, God and the people, and one word that describes this is pontifex, meaning bridge builder. Jesus is pontifex maximus, our great high priest, and he will rebuild the bridge we've broken.
But for me a chill falls across the proceedings when the third gift of myrrh is offered. Myrrh makes for a costly and special gift, but there’s no escaping the fact that it's also the stuff of death. For me the words quoted by Paul in Philippians chapter 2 stand at the heart of my understanding of discipleship and service: 'He emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.' This was what it would mean for Jesus to be king and priest: not the acquisition of status and power, but the letting go of these things. In the Letter to the Hebrews we read that Jesus is both the perfect priest, and also the perfect sacrifice. He offers himself for the sins of the people, to die so that they - that we - might live.
So gold, frankincense and myrrh are gifts with power and symbolic resonance, but it's the myrrh that most deeply expresses the crossing of human boundaries and the breaking of human barriers. For myrrh stands for the self-giving love that can break into our hearts, and for the God who in his gift to us places no limits on his love, loving as a Father loves even the most wayward of his children. The wise men bow before God’s only Son, who will reveal himself as the living expression of that boundless love.
So how come he didn't stay in his Jewish setting? However precious the birth we've just celebrated, it was his death that led those who saw him and heard him and followed him, and were changed by him, to conclude that what this man had done was for the whole world, and to acclaim him the King of Love, whose kingdom has no human boundaries. The Church founded in his name has the holy task of enabling that love to take root and grow and flower in all cultures and climes. This child the wise men hailed with gold, frankincense and myrrh can never be the a possession of any one race or culture. He's a Jew but he's not contained within what is Jewish; he sometimes feels very western and European, but he's not ours either to keep for ourselves. When the Gospel is made an instrument of imperialism or colonialism that gospel has lost its truth. Jesus is ours as a gift, and his Gospel must shared as a gift, humbly and lovingly - a gift to set all people free.
And wherever the Church may be, it should always bear the symbols of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Gold because we too are kings - Jesus shares with us his royal state and authority, and the secret of his throne, when he tells us: 'Let the one who would be greatest among you become the servant of all.' And wherever the Church is a servant Church it claims its share in the kingship of Christ.
Frankincense because we're all priests: for all who serve and follow Christ share a holy call to speak of God to the world, and to speak for the world to God. We are to pray without ceasing, and to witness with constant zeal. To listen to God, and pass on what we hear; to listen to the world, and to make our neighbour's need our constant prayer. And wherever the Church is doing this, in any language or culture, it's sharing and communicating the priesthood of Christ.
But myrrh too must be our sign, for we're called to die daily to sin, and to take up our cross as we follow our Lord. Our baptism joins us to the death of Christ and joins us also to his risen life and to the new wine of his Holy Spirit. Discipleship requires of us a dying, a laying down of the old things, so there can then be the rebirth that is Christ alive within us, as we promise and pray 'Lord, you only will I serve; you are Lord of all my life.' We may never manage to achieve what we intend or resolve, but we must always aim to offer all we can. As Christina Rossetti wrote, 'What I can I give him - give my heart'. Wherever the Church is really striving to be Christ-filled and Christ-centred, setting aside any desire for worldly status or security, then the death of Christ is being proclaimed, until he comes again.
And sisters and brothers, the amazing and wonderful thing is that our Church that is so often so broken, so unsatisfactory and even so sinful nonetheless is doing all these things in so many places: African places and Asian places and South American places, and even European places too. The wise men were right - the birth of this child was something very special, that could not go unmarked; they trekked across the desert to lay their royal gifts before the one whose love can transform every human heart, for in Bethlehem they found God's free and loving gift to the world he can never cease to love. May your heart and mine receive that love tonight, and may our lives proclaim it in the world.
Friday, 3 January 2014
Unhappy Bird
We have had more birds than ever on our feeders today, with blue, great, coal and long-tailed tits, great spotted woodpecker, chaffinch, siskin, greenfinch, bullfinch and goldfinch, nuthatch, wood pigeon, robin, dunnock, blackbird, house sparrow all visiting. The activity around the feeding station was most entertaining, but bringing so many birds together at one place can present its own problems, one of which (as I've mentioned before) is the ease with which disease and parasites can be passed on. It's important that we do our best to keep the feeding station reasonably clean and healthy.
One female chaffinch in particular has been rather unhappy. Its feet are very deformed, and its ability to perch must be greatly diminished. It seems to be able to hop around all right, but its deformity must make it more vulnerable to predation, I should think. It seems likely that this particular chaffinch is suffering from chaffinch viral papilloma, which is not uncommon, sadly. While it is not in itself life threatening, anything that encumbers a bird's ability to move about the place, and of course to perch somewhere hidden and out of reach, has got to put it at risk.
This disease is specific to chaffinches (and bramblings, I believe), so the other birds that visit our feeders are not at risk of contracting it. However, the existence of a very visible disease of this sort only points up the probability that other diseased birds without such obvious symptoms may be visiting feeders.
One female chaffinch in particular has been rather unhappy. Its feet are very deformed, and its ability to perch must be greatly diminished. It seems to be able to hop around all right, but its deformity must make it more vulnerable to predation, I should think. It seems likely that this particular chaffinch is suffering from chaffinch viral papilloma, which is not uncommon, sadly. While it is not in itself life threatening, anything that encumbers a bird's ability to move about the place, and of course to perch somewhere hidden and out of reach, has got to put it at risk.
This disease is specific to chaffinches (and bramblings, I believe), so the other birds that visit our feeders are not at risk of contracting it. However, the existence of a very visible disease of this sort only points up the probability that other diseased birds without such obvious symptoms may be visiting feeders.
Thursday, 2 January 2014
Siskin
After the mystery of the female siskin found dead outside our back door a week or two back, today for the first time a siskin was seen visiting our feeding station (along with about twenty goldfinches). This was a male, with the black crown to his head delightfully prominent. He was part of a real flurry of busy birds, with, besides the goldfinches, well into double figures of both chaffinches and blue tits, plus great, coal and long-tailed tits. Today has been a moderately calm interlude between stormy bursts of weather, and I wonder how aware the birds are of this, and their need to grab what they can while the weather holds!
Sunday, 29 December 2013
A Sunday Talk
. . . for the Sunday after Christmas :-
Tragedies of one sort or another strike at every season of the year, somewhere in the world; but tragedy at Christmas is especially poignant. A concert at which I sang just before Christmas supported the work of Save the Children in Syria and among the refugees from that sad conflict, and a representative from the charity told us about some of the work they were doing; it’s so sad that so many children are suffering there, who have no part in that war, nor do their families, just the desire to live in peace and safety. And among the TV adverts for beds and sofas, you’ll have seen many images of suffering children, as aid charities seek our help to challenge poverty, homelessness and disease.
A few weeks ago I watched the final programme in a TV series about pilgrimage, as the presenter arrived at the sacred sites of Jerusalem and Bethlehem. The programme didn’t hide away from the fact that there’s something between Jerusalem and Bethlehem now that wasn’t there when I made my visit to those places fifteen years ago. Then we passed through checkpoints, but now there’s also the wall, slabs of sheer grey concrete (with added graffiti) to separate Israel from the Palestinian areas of the West Bank. Many see this wall as unjust, particularly where it separates families from the land that’s their only source of income; but at the same time the state of Israel insists that the wall is vital to preserve their people from the constant threat of terrorist attack. I remember a scene of children looking through gaps in the wall. When communities are divided, and people live in fear of each other, often it’s the innocents, the children, who suffer most.
The first thing that happens after Christmas in our Bibles is also a tragic event; and like so many tragic events, it’s the children who suffer.
[Matthew, chapter 2, vv 16-end]
The historian in me has to admit at this point that we have no independent confirmation of the story Matthew tells us. But it matches what we know of the character of King Herod. This was a man who would stop at nothing to eliminate any challenge to his royal power. He killed several of his own children, so why would he baulk at killing the children of others. And life is cheap. That’s true in the world of today, and it was certainly true then.
The slaughter of the innocents inevitably raises the same one-word question as today’s tragic events - why? I have a friend for whom the story Matthew tells of the slaughter of the innocents is the biggest stumbling block to her faith. It was because of the psychopathic cruelty of King Herod that these children died; but why was it necessary for God's messiah to be born in a land whose king would murder all the other children in the town? Surely, my friend would ask, that’s too big a price to pay? Didn't God know what was going to happen? Didn’t God care?
That last question is one I find rather hard to answer. If God didn’t know, then that diminishes him, and if God did know but didn’t care, that diminishes him too: and what makes God either less than all-knowing or less than all-loving surely also makes him less than God. Could I have faith in a God who really doesn't know what's going to happen next? Or who really doesn't care?
And in that thought there is a major faith challenge. It’s basic to our faith that God is love. And we believe that God is omnipotent - in other words, all-powerful - and omniscient - in other words, all-knowing. And yet the little children died in Bethlehem - as the carol says of Herod ‘All the little boys he killed at Bethlem in his fury’; and today innocent people suffer still, and young lives are still lost that have scarcely begun.
It sort of helps a bit when we have someone to blame. The children died in Bethlehem because of Herod's megalomania and paranoia. But that still leaves the challenge of the images of poverty on our TV screens, in the aftermath of storm or earthquake or other natural disaster. Who’s to blame then? Even when people don’t behave with deliberate cruelly, innocent people still suffer, innocent lives are lost. So is God in charge, or is he not? Or is God a tyrant with the same irrational and cruel streak as Herod or, say, Caligula or Stalin?
My faith is certainly challenged by these events and by my reflections upon them. And yet I go on believing. And what I believe is this - that God cannot be remote and terrible and irrational and cruel, for God is like Jesus. I believe in a God who matches the picture Jesus shows me; I believe in a God whose whole nature is love, and whose way is the way of justice and righteousness. I believe in a God is biased toward the marginalised and the vulnerable and the poor. Indeed, I believe in a God who has chosen to share that life, beginning in the stable at Bethlehem and the flight from Bethlehem to Egypt to escape the wrath of Herod: a God who doesn’t stand apart from human tragedy.
But I still have to reconcile that belief with the fact of the persistence of injustice and unrighteousness in the world . . . so how am I going to do that?
C.S. Lewis wrote about 'the problem of pain', something that theologians have wrestled with throughout the whole of Christian history; and at the end of all their writing and thinking the problem remains. Why do I have to suffer, and why does anyone - in particular what about the innocents who just get caught in the crossfire? There comes a point at which rational argument fails, and as a believer I have to take a leap of faith'. I don't have all the answers, and however lovely the Christmas stories, they still leave me short of complete proof. I have to make that leap, and sometimes I can do it with a fair amount of confidence and hope, and other times I find it’s harder. Faith and doubt form two sides of the same coin, I discover. Like St Paul, I see dark reflections in the glass, but hope one day to know fully and completely - to know as I am known.
But the very fact that I’m so appalled by the story of the killings Herod ordered in Bethlehem, the very fact that I’m so moved by the images of suffering on TV, etched on the faces of children I’ll never know, who are halfway round the world from me - that in itself is part of the answer to my faith question. We know about right and wrong, good and bad, darkness and light; we have an intrinsic capacity to care about these things, to know what sort of world we want to see, and Christmas each year rekindles those hopes and dreams within us. And somehow freedom, love and pain are inextricably linked together. God made us free to quest for him, to love him, to serve him - or to ignore him.
Christina Rossetti wrote ‘love came down at Christmas, love all lovely, love divine.’ Love was born into a world where then as now hatred and suffering can seem to have the upper hand, where the streets too often run with blood. In this dark world God proves his love in the birth of this child. But a world in which we’re free to love him back maybe has to be a world of chance and danger, and the new king who enters that world isn’t a king like Herod. He doesn’t descend with chariots of fire, he’s born in a stable.
And even as I welcome the Prince of Peace, the Christmas story as a whole forces me also to admit the reality and potency of evil. It’s dangerous to downplay the role of evil in the world. Everything can’t be explained away in terms of societal pressures, or failures in nurture, or the impact of poverty, or our genetic inheritance . . . nor is evil the preserve of those people the tabloid press likes to label as 'monsters' - and therefore quite different from us. Evil can happen anywhere; evil is what happens when good is absent, and when good people look away.
The murder of the children in Bethlehem is a reminder of what happens when evil is rampant and unchecked. All that’s needed for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing. The battle between good and evil is fundamental to our human experience, and it’s an inevitable component of the story of love. And though I don't have a complete answer to the problem of pain and evil, I think I do have the beginning of an answer that I can work with. The story of the Word made flesh who dwells among us tells me that God doesn’t leave himself out but includes himself in: love incarnate is calling us to love, and lighting our way.
And this is love not just as an idea or a tinselly picture, but as a programme for action, and for courageous and generous living. So let’s not just think about love, but do it. Evil reigns not so much because bad people do bad things, but because good people let them. Let me close with some words for Christmas from the black author, educationalist and civil rights leader Howard Thurman.
When the song of the angels is stilled,
when the star in the sky is gone,
when the kings and the princes are home,
when the shepherds are back with their flocks,
then the work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among the people,
to make music in the heart.
Tragedies of one sort or another strike at every season of the year, somewhere in the world; but tragedy at Christmas is especially poignant. A concert at which I sang just before Christmas supported the work of Save the Children in Syria and among the refugees from that sad conflict, and a representative from the charity told us about some of the work they were doing; it’s so sad that so many children are suffering there, who have no part in that war, nor do their families, just the desire to live in peace and safety. And among the TV adverts for beds and sofas, you’ll have seen many images of suffering children, as aid charities seek our help to challenge poverty, homelessness and disease.
A few weeks ago I watched the final programme in a TV series about pilgrimage, as the presenter arrived at the sacred sites of Jerusalem and Bethlehem. The programme didn’t hide away from the fact that there’s something between Jerusalem and Bethlehem now that wasn’t there when I made my visit to those places fifteen years ago. Then we passed through checkpoints, but now there’s also the wall, slabs of sheer grey concrete (with added graffiti) to separate Israel from the Palestinian areas of the West Bank. Many see this wall as unjust, particularly where it separates families from the land that’s their only source of income; but at the same time the state of Israel insists that the wall is vital to preserve their people from the constant threat of terrorist attack. I remember a scene of children looking through gaps in the wall. When communities are divided, and people live in fear of each other, often it’s the innocents, the children, who suffer most.
The first thing that happens after Christmas in our Bibles is also a tragic event; and like so many tragic events, it’s the children who suffer.
[Matthew, chapter 2, vv 16-end]
The historian in me has to admit at this point that we have no independent confirmation of the story Matthew tells us. But it matches what we know of the character of King Herod. This was a man who would stop at nothing to eliminate any challenge to his royal power. He killed several of his own children, so why would he baulk at killing the children of others. And life is cheap. That’s true in the world of today, and it was certainly true then.
The slaughter of the innocents inevitably raises the same one-word question as today’s tragic events - why? I have a friend for whom the story Matthew tells of the slaughter of the innocents is the biggest stumbling block to her faith. It was because of the psychopathic cruelty of King Herod that these children died; but why was it necessary for God's messiah to be born in a land whose king would murder all the other children in the town? Surely, my friend would ask, that’s too big a price to pay? Didn't God know what was going to happen? Didn’t God care?
That last question is one I find rather hard to answer. If God didn’t know, then that diminishes him, and if God did know but didn’t care, that diminishes him too: and what makes God either less than all-knowing or less than all-loving surely also makes him less than God. Could I have faith in a God who really doesn't know what's going to happen next? Or who really doesn't care?
And in that thought there is a major faith challenge. It’s basic to our faith that God is love. And we believe that God is omnipotent - in other words, all-powerful - and omniscient - in other words, all-knowing. And yet the little children died in Bethlehem - as the carol says of Herod ‘All the little boys he killed at Bethlem in his fury’; and today innocent people suffer still, and young lives are still lost that have scarcely begun.
It sort of helps a bit when we have someone to blame. The children died in Bethlehem because of Herod's megalomania and paranoia. But that still leaves the challenge of the images of poverty on our TV screens, in the aftermath of storm or earthquake or other natural disaster. Who’s to blame then? Even when people don’t behave with deliberate cruelly, innocent people still suffer, innocent lives are lost. So is God in charge, or is he not? Or is God a tyrant with the same irrational and cruel streak as Herod or, say, Caligula or Stalin?
My faith is certainly challenged by these events and by my reflections upon them. And yet I go on believing. And what I believe is this - that God cannot be remote and terrible and irrational and cruel, for God is like Jesus. I believe in a God who matches the picture Jesus shows me; I believe in a God whose whole nature is love, and whose way is the way of justice and righteousness. I believe in a God is biased toward the marginalised and the vulnerable and the poor. Indeed, I believe in a God who has chosen to share that life, beginning in the stable at Bethlehem and the flight from Bethlehem to Egypt to escape the wrath of Herod: a God who doesn’t stand apart from human tragedy.
But I still have to reconcile that belief with the fact of the persistence of injustice and unrighteousness in the world . . . so how am I going to do that?
C.S. Lewis wrote about 'the problem of pain', something that theologians have wrestled with throughout the whole of Christian history; and at the end of all their writing and thinking the problem remains. Why do I have to suffer, and why does anyone - in particular what about the innocents who just get caught in the crossfire? There comes a point at which rational argument fails, and as a believer I have to take a leap of faith'. I don't have all the answers, and however lovely the Christmas stories, they still leave me short of complete proof. I have to make that leap, and sometimes I can do it with a fair amount of confidence and hope, and other times I find it’s harder. Faith and doubt form two sides of the same coin, I discover. Like St Paul, I see dark reflections in the glass, but hope one day to know fully and completely - to know as I am known.
But the very fact that I’m so appalled by the story of the killings Herod ordered in Bethlehem, the very fact that I’m so moved by the images of suffering on TV, etched on the faces of children I’ll never know, who are halfway round the world from me - that in itself is part of the answer to my faith question. We know about right and wrong, good and bad, darkness and light; we have an intrinsic capacity to care about these things, to know what sort of world we want to see, and Christmas each year rekindles those hopes and dreams within us. And somehow freedom, love and pain are inextricably linked together. God made us free to quest for him, to love him, to serve him - or to ignore him.
Christina Rossetti wrote ‘love came down at Christmas, love all lovely, love divine.’ Love was born into a world where then as now hatred and suffering can seem to have the upper hand, where the streets too often run with blood. In this dark world God proves his love in the birth of this child. But a world in which we’re free to love him back maybe has to be a world of chance and danger, and the new king who enters that world isn’t a king like Herod. He doesn’t descend with chariots of fire, he’s born in a stable.
And even as I welcome the Prince of Peace, the Christmas story as a whole forces me also to admit the reality and potency of evil. It’s dangerous to downplay the role of evil in the world. Everything can’t be explained away in terms of societal pressures, or failures in nurture, or the impact of poverty, or our genetic inheritance . . . nor is evil the preserve of those people the tabloid press likes to label as 'monsters' - and therefore quite different from us. Evil can happen anywhere; evil is what happens when good is absent, and when good people look away.
The murder of the children in Bethlehem is a reminder of what happens when evil is rampant and unchecked. All that’s needed for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing. The battle between good and evil is fundamental to our human experience, and it’s an inevitable component of the story of love. And though I don't have a complete answer to the problem of pain and evil, I think I do have the beginning of an answer that I can work with. The story of the Word made flesh who dwells among us tells me that God doesn’t leave himself out but includes himself in: love incarnate is calling us to love, and lighting our way.
And this is love not just as an idea or a tinselly picture, but as a programme for action, and for courageous and generous living. So let’s not just think about love, but do it. Evil reigns not so much because bad people do bad things, but because good people let them. Let me close with some words for Christmas from the black author, educationalist and civil rights leader Howard Thurman.
When the song of the angels is stilled,
when the star in the sky is gone,
when the kings and the princes are home,
when the shepherds are back with their flocks,
then the work of Christmas begins:
to find the lost,
to heal the broken,
to feed the hungry,
to release the prisoner,
to rebuild the nations,
to bring peace among the people,
to make music in the heart.
Friday, 27 December 2013
A Small Mystery
. . . A small tragedy, as well. The other day I found a siskin, a female bird, lying dead just outside our back door. I am not sure what was the cause of death, but a small amount of blood was visible on the tail feathers, leading me to speculate that maybe it was killed by one of the local cats, and left there perhaps as a sort of gift, or maybe just because the bird's killer was disturbed.
So there's one mystery; but the other mysterious thing is that a siskin should be there at all, since we have never seen a live siskin in our garden in all the time we've been here. There will be siskins not too far away, to be sure - when we lived just up the way in Brookfield Road, we had siskins all winter, as very regular visitors to our feeding station. They are delightful small finches, very acrobatic and with an attractive plumage. As they quite often flock with goldfinches - and we have no shortage of goldfinches, with fifteen our highest total at one time so far this winter - we had hoped to see them here, but it's sad that the only one seen so far is dead.
So there's one mystery; but the other mysterious thing is that a siskin should be there at all, since we have never seen a live siskin in our garden in all the time we've been here. There will be siskins not too far away, to be sure - when we lived just up the way in Brookfield Road, we had siskins all winter, as very regular visitors to our feeding station. They are delightful small finches, very acrobatic and with an attractive plumage. As they quite often flock with goldfinches - and we have no shortage of goldfinches, with fifteen our highest total at one time so far this winter - we had hoped to see them here, but it's sad that the only one seen so far is dead.
Monday, 23 December 2013
Not Really Believing
Not really believing, and yet
I have come to sing again the old words,
and to rejoice that the candles still are lit;
my heart will still respond, will still be moved
as the remembered stories are read once more
from behind the great brass eagle.
I am here because I want to be, perhaps even
because I need to be.
I should like tonight the chance to be a child again,
with no need to worry about whether shepherds saw a star,
and wise men heard an angel;
Matthew and Luke have written their distinct stories of a birth,
but tonight their stories are melded as one,
one tale, to be re-told by candlelight
and sung to the old dancing tunes that power the faith songs of the people.
I am glad still to be part of this.
And then there comes the story that for me will always stand unshaken,
whatever my doubts about stables and stars:
“In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God.” Here
is the truth I shall depend on, the quay
at which I moor my ship of faith,
such a flimsy craft for much of the year,
and so easily cast astray.
The child I was rejoiced at mystery,
was happy not to understand,
loved being so small, where the old arches soared upwards
into a dusty and holy height
hardly touched by the flickering flames below.
We stand for the Ninth Lesson,
bow our heads at the holy words -
“And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.”
And yes, we have seen his glory,
or we have almost seen it, caught this season’s tantalising glimpse
somewhere within the echoes of our carolling,
half-hidden in that holy dusk, beyond the candle flames we have lit:
a light that is not of our kindling, but is his own,
and a Word that is its own music, impossibly ancient
and yet completely, utterly new, as it seeks an entry to my heart.
Homeward bound with “O Come, All Ye Faithful” still in my ears, I see how
every star is newly bright across the virgin sky
as the haloed moon sails high, and the sparkled frost begins to form.
I have come to sing again the old words,
and to rejoice that the candles still are lit;
my heart will still respond, will still be moved
as the remembered stories are read once more
from behind the great brass eagle.
I am here because I want to be, perhaps even
because I need to be.
I should like tonight the chance to be a child again,
with no need to worry about whether shepherds saw a star,
and wise men heard an angel;
Matthew and Luke have written their distinct stories of a birth,
but tonight their stories are melded as one,
one tale, to be re-told by candlelight
and sung to the old dancing tunes that power the faith songs of the people.
I am glad still to be part of this.
And then there comes the story that for me will always stand unshaken,
whatever my doubts about stables and stars:
“In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God.” Here
is the truth I shall depend on, the quay
at which I moor my ship of faith,
such a flimsy craft for much of the year,
and so easily cast astray.
The child I was rejoiced at mystery,
was happy not to understand,
loved being so small, where the old arches soared upwards
into a dusty and holy height
hardly touched by the flickering flames below.
We stand for the Ninth Lesson,
bow our heads at the holy words -
“And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us.”
And yes, we have seen his glory,
or we have almost seen it, caught this season’s tantalising glimpse
somewhere within the echoes of our carolling,
half-hidden in that holy dusk, beyond the candle flames we have lit:
a light that is not of our kindling, but is his own,
and a Word that is its own music, impossibly ancient
and yet completely, utterly new, as it seeks an entry to my heart.
Homeward bound with “O Come, All Ye Faithful” still in my ears, I see how
every star is newly bright across the virgin sky
as the haloed moon sails high, and the sparkled frost begins to form.
Sunday, 22 December 2013
Mixed Bag
We seem to be having a mixed bag of very changeable weather just now! I parked my car in bright sunshine this morning, and strolled across the road to church for the carol service, which was gently enjoyable; but by the time I came out of church the world outside had changed completely, and I had to hurry back to the car in the face of a determined onslaught of cold wind, sleet and hail.
So a mixed bag of weather, with most of the last few days having begun with morning sunshine and then deteriorated markedly as the day has worn on. This was especially true yesterday, as I had been completely fooled into thinking that things were going to stay fine all day, and was slightly mystified by travel reports on the radio that spoke of the probable disruption later, once the bad weather arrived. There had seemed no sign of it - and then, all of a sudden, it arrived! Fortunately, I was inside by then.
We can for the most part hide away from the weather, though it certainly exposes any weakness in our shelter than we hadn't noticed or attended to properly. Just at the moment I'm very aware that a day or two spent on my gutters during the summer might have been a good idea - water is cascading through several leaky joints, and working on them at this time of the year isn't going to be easy. The wildlife that visits our gardens can't hide so easily, and a bit of care on our part will be very helpful to the creatures that live around us. I like my garden to look tidy at the back end of the year, but I'm prepared to compromise and leave a few scruffy bits, if that will provide winter habitats - which it will.
Keeping the feeders stocked means that birds can find a ready source of nutrition on days when bad weather forces them to shelter much of the time, and leaves little daylight opportunity for hunting or foraging. A pile of logs provides lots of safe places for overwintering insects and other invertebrates - as does not cutting back all the dead growth in our borders until spring. Ivy on trees and fences is best left undisturbed, unless it is likely to disturb or unbalance - or smother, I suppose - what it is growing over. Not only is it a good shelter for many small creatures, it is a winter food supply for insect-eaters - like goldcrests and wrens - that rarely if ever come to feeders, but need a source of wild food and suffer greatly in hard winters.
Our feeders themselves are being depleted of sunflower seeds almost daily. The nuts and nyger seed last a bit longer, as do the fat balls, but this afternoon everything is running low, so I need to replenish the feeders before nightfall - and replenish my seed hopper in the shed as soon as I can get to the shop to do it! Once you've made a decision to feed the garden birds, it's good to keep to it! Having said that, it's also important to maintain good standards of hygiene, as in the wild a good food source doesn't last all that long - once it's finished, the birds have to move elsewhere. As that isn't true of the garden feeders, the risk is greatly enhanced of diseases building up and of toxic growths where food is allowed to go bad. It's a bore, washing everything, but I need to make sure I do it this week, to make sure "my" birds stay healthy.
So a mixed bag of weather, with most of the last few days having begun with morning sunshine and then deteriorated markedly as the day has worn on. This was especially true yesterday, as I had been completely fooled into thinking that things were going to stay fine all day, and was slightly mystified by travel reports on the radio that spoke of the probable disruption later, once the bad weather arrived. There had seemed no sign of it - and then, all of a sudden, it arrived! Fortunately, I was inside by then.
We can for the most part hide away from the weather, though it certainly exposes any weakness in our shelter than we hadn't noticed or attended to properly. Just at the moment I'm very aware that a day or two spent on my gutters during the summer might have been a good idea - water is cascading through several leaky joints, and working on them at this time of the year isn't going to be easy. The wildlife that visits our gardens can't hide so easily, and a bit of care on our part will be very helpful to the creatures that live around us. I like my garden to look tidy at the back end of the year, but I'm prepared to compromise and leave a few scruffy bits, if that will provide winter habitats - which it will.
Keeping the feeders stocked means that birds can find a ready source of nutrition on days when bad weather forces them to shelter much of the time, and leaves little daylight opportunity for hunting or foraging. A pile of logs provides lots of safe places for overwintering insects and other invertebrates - as does not cutting back all the dead growth in our borders until spring. Ivy on trees and fences is best left undisturbed, unless it is likely to disturb or unbalance - or smother, I suppose - what it is growing over. Not only is it a good shelter for many small creatures, it is a winter food supply for insect-eaters - like goldcrests and wrens - that rarely if ever come to feeders, but need a source of wild food and suffer greatly in hard winters.
Our feeders themselves are being depleted of sunflower seeds almost daily. The nuts and nyger seed last a bit longer, as do the fat balls, but this afternoon everything is running low, so I need to replenish the feeders before nightfall - and replenish my seed hopper in the shed as soon as I can get to the shop to do it! Once you've made a decision to feed the garden birds, it's good to keep to it! Having said that, it's also important to maintain good standards of hygiene, as in the wild a good food source doesn't last all that long - once it's finished, the birds have to move elsewhere. As that isn't true of the garden feeders, the risk is greatly enhanced of diseases building up and of toxic growths where food is allowed to go bad. It's a bore, washing everything, but I need to make sure I do it this week, to make sure "my" birds stay healthy.
Friday, 20 December 2013
Christmas Song
A poem / song of mine (I did also write a tune for it) that has recently been published in a poetry collection :-
There are brown tyre treads in the virgin snow
and your skin turns blue in the cold wind's blow,
but you ain't got no place else to go,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.
The sky is black and there ain't no stars,
and the only lights are the cruising cars
and the neon signs of those downbeat bars,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.
There's no shepherds in these parts, my dear,
no herald angels singing clear,
and any wise men stay home for a warm and a beer,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.
Yet I remember a night in a time of old
when the sky exploded in burning gold,
and the songs were sung and the tidings told,
and the earth and the heaven were a single fold,
and they called these streets salvation, lady,
this place was Bethlehem.
There are brown tyre treads in the virgin snow
and your skin turns blue in the cold wind's blow,
but you ain't got no place else to go,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.
The sky is black and there ain't no stars,
and the only lights are the cruising cars
and the neon signs of those downbeat bars,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.
There's no shepherds in these parts, my dear,
no herald angels singing clear,
and any wise men stay home for a warm and a beer,
and you're on your own on these streets, lady,
you're on your own down here.
Yet I remember a night in a time of old
when the sky exploded in burning gold,
and the songs were sung and the tidings told,
and the earth and the heaven were a single fold,
and they called these streets salvation, lady,
this place was Bethlehem.
Yes, they called these streets salvation, lady,
this place was Bethlehem.
Dunnock
My latest 'Nature Notes' article for some of our local magazines :-
Our garden feeders are proving very popular this winter, and we’ve seen up to fifteen goldfinches at a time, plus great, blue, coal, marsh and long-tailed tits, a nuthatch, chaffinches and a beautiful pair of bullfinches, a very proprietorial robin and - much to the consternation of the other birds - a pair of great spotted woodpeckers. But one of my favourites is a rather undistinguished brown bird that doesn’t visit the feeders, but regularly pecks about underneath, picking up what the other birds drop - and that’s the dunnock.
Dunnocks are brown and grey sparrow sized birds, which is why they have often been called ‘hedge sparrows’. In truth, though, they’re not really sparrows, and have the thin beak associated with insect-eaters, rather than the thick seed-eating bill of the house or tree sparrow. They also have a short but pretty song in season.
Dunnocks feed mostly on the ground, and mostly their dist consists of insects and other invertebrates, plus some berries and fruit - and, of course, bird-table food but generally only the stuff that gets dropped. Though fairly secretive, it’s a common bird, found everywhere in the British Isles (except Shetland and much of Orkney), with gardens, parkland, scrubby heaths and farmland hedges the dunnock’s main habitat. The cup-shaped nest, lined with moss, hair and other soft material, will generally be constructed in a dense bush or hedge, or in a bramble patch, and a garden with some good bushes is most likely to attract breeding dunnocks. Four or five eggs are usual.
The sexes are alike, with streaked brown wings and upper parts, and a grey breast. The head is grey with a brown crown, and there is a brown patch around the eye. While some dunnocks seem to pair in a conventional way, this species is infamous for a degree of infidelity, with some males having several female partners, and some females consorting with more than one male!
With probably something over two million breeding pairs in the UK, this is by no means a rare bird, though it’s often overlooked. It is a resident species, and our British dunnocks do not move around much, though some extra dunnocks may arrive from Scandinavia to spend the winter here.
Glad Jones, from Llandrinio, whom many people will remember with great affection, was a keen garden bird watcher, and always had dunnocks in her garden. She told me the story of a visitor one day who, looking out from her window, said, “That’s a fine old dunnock you’ve got at the top of your garden.” When she looked she could not see any small brown mouse-like birds rootling about, so she was for a moment mystified . . . until it dawned on her that her visitor was referring not to a bird of any sort but to an old fork-like implement, a dung-hook!
Our garden feeders are proving very popular this winter, and we’ve seen up to fifteen goldfinches at a time, plus great, blue, coal, marsh and long-tailed tits, a nuthatch, chaffinches and a beautiful pair of bullfinches, a very proprietorial robin and - much to the consternation of the other birds - a pair of great spotted woodpeckers. But one of my favourites is a rather undistinguished brown bird that doesn’t visit the feeders, but regularly pecks about underneath, picking up what the other birds drop - and that’s the dunnock.
Dunnocks are brown and grey sparrow sized birds, which is why they have often been called ‘hedge sparrows’. In truth, though, they’re not really sparrows, and have the thin beak associated with insect-eaters, rather than the thick seed-eating bill of the house or tree sparrow. They also have a short but pretty song in season.
Dunnocks feed mostly on the ground, and mostly their dist consists of insects and other invertebrates, plus some berries and fruit - and, of course, bird-table food but generally only the stuff that gets dropped. Though fairly secretive, it’s a common bird, found everywhere in the British Isles (except Shetland and much of Orkney), with gardens, parkland, scrubby heaths and farmland hedges the dunnock’s main habitat. The cup-shaped nest, lined with moss, hair and other soft material, will generally be constructed in a dense bush or hedge, or in a bramble patch, and a garden with some good bushes is most likely to attract breeding dunnocks. Four or five eggs are usual.
The sexes are alike, with streaked brown wings and upper parts, and a grey breast. The head is grey with a brown crown, and there is a brown patch around the eye. While some dunnocks seem to pair in a conventional way, this species is infamous for a degree of infidelity, with some males having several female partners, and some females consorting with more than one male!
With probably something over two million breeding pairs in the UK, this is by no means a rare bird, though it’s often overlooked. It is a resident species, and our British dunnocks do not move around much, though some extra dunnocks may arrive from Scandinavia to spend the winter here.
Glad Jones, from Llandrinio, whom many people will remember with great affection, was a keen garden bird watcher, and always had dunnocks in her garden. She told me the story of a visitor one day who, looking out from her window, said, “That’s a fine old dunnock you’ve got at the top of your garden.” When she looked she could not see any small brown mouse-like birds rootling about, so she was for a moment mystified . . . until it dawned on her that her visitor was referring not to a bird of any sort but to an old fork-like implement, a dung-hook!
Monday, 16 December 2013
Bird Report (again)
Yesterday the activity around our feeders was quite frenzied. At one stage we had fifteen goldfinches in our garden, the flash of yellow as they flew sometimes quite brilliant, even on a rather dull day. The great spotted woodpecker is also a brilliant arrival, of course; interestingly, yesterday as he settled on the nut feeder, the other feeders remained very much in use. Previously, I've noted that when a woodpecker is present, the other feeders are abandoned for a while. The visiting woodpecker yesterday was a male - up till now we'd only seen a female.
Visitors included two long-tailed tits, any number of chaffinches, and a busy wren. There was plenty of jackdaw activity in the trees behind us, and one did fly down to investigate the feeders, driving the other birds away as he perched there. He didn't stay long. A single cock house sparrow lingered awhile. As a child, I remember our garden being full of house sparrows; here they are rarely seen in our back garden. A decent sized flock of sparrows will more or less take over a feeding station, keeping most other birds away (or at least, that was our experience in a previous garden), but individually they don't seem to compete well. One explanation for the decline of sparrows seems to be that, as communal birds, once a colony falls below a certain size it seems to lose vigour. House sparrows were the first birds to find and use our front garden feeder, but now they are not often seen there. Tits and goldfinches, being more agile, seem able to take over.
We never see starlings in this garden, though they do fly across sometimes, and perch on the wires just down the street. They were occasional visitors in our previous place. Again, starlings were ever-present in my childhood garden. In those days we threw out scraps for the birds - bread, bits of fat from the bacon, and so forth. Perhaps today's more sophisticated feeding stations discriminate in favour of certain birds - tits, finches and so forth - to the detriment of our old sparrows. Having said that, starlings were certainly able to drive everything else off the feeding station in our previous garden, on the occasions that they appeared there, and to make effective use of the feeders, so I do wonder about their complete absence here.
Visitors included two long-tailed tits, any number of chaffinches, and a busy wren. There was plenty of jackdaw activity in the trees behind us, and one did fly down to investigate the feeders, driving the other birds away as he perched there. He didn't stay long. A single cock house sparrow lingered awhile. As a child, I remember our garden being full of house sparrows; here they are rarely seen in our back garden. A decent sized flock of sparrows will more or less take over a feeding station, keeping most other birds away (or at least, that was our experience in a previous garden), but individually they don't seem to compete well. One explanation for the decline of sparrows seems to be that, as communal birds, once a colony falls below a certain size it seems to lose vigour. House sparrows were the first birds to find and use our front garden feeder, but now they are not often seen there. Tits and goldfinches, being more agile, seem able to take over.
We never see starlings in this garden, though they do fly across sometimes, and perch on the wires just down the street. They were occasional visitors in our previous place. Again, starlings were ever-present in my childhood garden. In those days we threw out scraps for the birds - bread, bits of fat from the bacon, and so forth. Perhaps today's more sophisticated feeding stations discriminate in favour of certain birds - tits, finches and so forth - to the detriment of our old sparrows. Having said that, starlings were certainly able to drive everything else off the feeding station in our previous garden, on the occasions that they appeared there, and to make effective use of the feeders, so I do wonder about their complete absence here.
Friday, 13 December 2013
Therapy
Since my resignation as a cleric nearly three years ago, while in many ways my life has remained or indeed become very enjoyable and fulfilling, there've been some big questions around with which I've needed to wrestle, questions to do with identity and purpose: with belief and accountability, with responsibility and calling. Sometimes I seem to be so pulled apart by my often rather contrary thoughts that my end-state is one of numbness, really: just plodding on and getting through things without understanding or feeling anything very much.
I suspect there is nothing all that unusual in this. While some of us cope better than others with the complexities of existence, part of what it means to be human is this capacity we have not only for doing lots of things with dexterity and skill and inventiveness, but also for reflecting on what we do, and of course asking that troublesome question why. Sometimes the best of us find the questions and anxieties of life threatening to swamp us. I'm glad, therefore, and grateful for the people available to me with whom I can just share stuff, maybe not all that articulately always, but whose patient listening is so important.
As I recall from my days in ministry, the patient listener may sometimes feel frustrated by his/her inability to come up with the solutions and cogent advice we feel the situation requires of us; but of course we shouldn't be, the listening process itself is therapeutic. Today I spent an hour trying to express how I feel about the present situation, about possibilities and decisions that are facing me, about what I hope for, what I fear, what I feel about past events. I was well and carefully listened to throughout, not always with complete understanding I suspect, since I'm not at all sure I was always making coherent sense, but certainly I was attended to.
And it's because of that careful listening, rather than because of any wise words offered in reply, that this evening I feel so much more sorted out and organised. I have a clearer understanding of where I am now because when you speak things out loud rather than just churn them around in your head you do begin to make connections and sense out of what otherwise might just be a jumble. This means that the future is also clearer: I may not know yet what choices and decisions I may make when the time comes, but I do know I can approach them with more confidence and less anxiety.
Being listened to achieves a lot. And I am also reminded that one of the most valuable things about time spent in prayer is not that God answers us when we pray (he does, of course, if not always in the way we would choose), but that he listens, and that he does so with patience, with understanding and with love - like the father who stood day after day, watching in hope for the return of his prodigal son.
I suspect there is nothing all that unusual in this. While some of us cope better than others with the complexities of existence, part of what it means to be human is this capacity we have not only for doing lots of things with dexterity and skill and inventiveness, but also for reflecting on what we do, and of course asking that troublesome question why. Sometimes the best of us find the questions and anxieties of life threatening to swamp us. I'm glad, therefore, and grateful for the people available to me with whom I can just share stuff, maybe not all that articulately always, but whose patient listening is so important.
As I recall from my days in ministry, the patient listener may sometimes feel frustrated by his/her inability to come up with the solutions and cogent advice we feel the situation requires of us; but of course we shouldn't be, the listening process itself is therapeutic. Today I spent an hour trying to express how I feel about the present situation, about possibilities and decisions that are facing me, about what I hope for, what I fear, what I feel about past events. I was well and carefully listened to throughout, not always with complete understanding I suspect, since I'm not at all sure I was always making coherent sense, but certainly I was attended to.
And it's because of that careful listening, rather than because of any wise words offered in reply, that this evening I feel so much more sorted out and organised. I have a clearer understanding of where I am now because when you speak things out loud rather than just churn them around in your head you do begin to make connections and sense out of what otherwise might just be a jumble. This means that the future is also clearer: I may not know yet what choices and decisions I may make when the time comes, but I do know I can approach them with more confidence and less anxiety.
Being listened to achieves a lot. And I am also reminded that one of the most valuable things about time spent in prayer is not that God answers us when we pray (he does, of course, if not always in the way we would choose), but that he listens, and that he does so with patience, with understanding and with love - like the father who stood day after day, watching in hope for the return of his prodigal son.
Thursday, 12 December 2013
Singers
One of the choirs I sing with gave its annual Christmas concert in its "home" church tonight, and a good number of folk turned up to hear, I'm pleased to say. Our concert material ranged from the 16th century to the present day, and included a few lighter pieces as well as some quite serious choral music. And all went very well. Usually I stay for the debrief over mulled wine and mince pies, but tonight I had a lot to do at home so Ann and I came straight back. But from just the few conversations we had with people as we made our way out, it's clear that the audience enjoyed hearing the music as much as we enjoyed singing it.
Bird song delights us as much as human choirs, and of course many composers have been inspired by, and on occasions explicitly copied, the songs of birds. One of the special things about being human is the way in which we delight in things like the sound of bird song or the colour of spring flowers, or the texture of a partly clouded sky; none of these things is provided for our amusement or entertainment, and yet we enjoy them and find them beautiful.
Bird song itself is simply a mode of communication, or so we are told. A robin singing its wistfully sweet falling cadences at this time of year is just establishing its winter territory, and warning other birds off, something which was particularly obvious when I went for a morning walk along a quite country road on a Greek island in the late autumn. Robins were singing at very regular intervals along the lane, each one claiming its little patch.
Of course, some birds - blackbirds and thrushes in the Spring, to give one obvious example - certainly quite deliberately aim to make their song complex and beautifully inventive. And of course, better than that of the next bird. It's still competitive, but it's not so much a shouting match as the final round in an eisteddfod. The hen presumably finds the song as attractive as we do.
But I'm also thinking about the goldfinches I mentioned in my last post. We're getting a lot in the garden just now, and they are quite beautifully noisy. You can hear them through our double glazing, which normally shuts out most things pretty well. And they do seem just to be having fun, though perhaps that's a sentimental and anthropomorphic point of view. Whatever else birdsong is for, sometimes it's just an eager expression of the joy companions can take in each other. Just as our human singing can be.
Bird song delights us as much as human choirs, and of course many composers have been inspired by, and on occasions explicitly copied, the songs of birds. One of the special things about being human is the way in which we delight in things like the sound of bird song or the colour of spring flowers, or the texture of a partly clouded sky; none of these things is provided for our amusement or entertainment, and yet we enjoy them and find them beautiful.
Bird song itself is simply a mode of communication, or so we are told. A robin singing its wistfully sweet falling cadences at this time of year is just establishing its winter territory, and warning other birds off, something which was particularly obvious when I went for a morning walk along a quite country road on a Greek island in the late autumn. Robins were singing at very regular intervals along the lane, each one claiming its little patch.
Of course, some birds - blackbirds and thrushes in the Spring, to give one obvious example - certainly quite deliberately aim to make their song complex and beautifully inventive. And of course, better than that of the next bird. It's still competitive, but it's not so much a shouting match as the final round in an eisteddfod. The hen presumably finds the song as attractive as we do.
But I'm also thinking about the goldfinches I mentioned in my last post. We're getting a lot in the garden just now, and they are quite beautifully noisy. You can hear them through our double glazing, which normally shuts out most things pretty well. And they do seem just to be having fun, though perhaps that's a sentimental and anthropomorphic point of view. Whatever else birdsong is for, sometimes it's just an eager expression of the joy companions can take in each other. Just as our human singing can be.
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Bird Report
As winter begins, our garden bird population is growing, in interest as well as in numbers. We had at least a dozen goldfinches this morning, among the most attractive of our finches, and very agile birds. They divide their attention between the nyger seed and our sunflower hearts. Blue tits visit in about the same numbers, and they prefer the sunflower hearts to anything else on offer, but will also peck at the peanuts and fat balls. They completely ignore the nyger seed, as do the great tits and coal tits which are present in smaller numbers. We have occasionally been visited by a marsh tit, and the other day had a family group of long tailed tits, which were present at the same time as goldfinches and a pair of bullfinches, making for a quite delightful scene.
Coal tits routinely take sunflower hearts and secrete them in various hiding places, including hanging baskets and plant pots. A single bird will whizz to and fro, removing quite a few seeds. Coal tits seem quite fussy, and will reject several before deciding on one they like, so a fair few seeds get deposited under the feeders, benefiting the chaffinches which are not as agile as many of the other birds, and the dunnocks which always feed on the ground.
Today we've had a nuthatch. This particular nuthatch seems to be quite a timid bird, compared to the rather macho nuthatches we've seen elsewhere. Nuthatches can generally move most other birds off the feeders, but this one seems quite oblivious to the fact that in general other birds will get out of its way; it is easily spooked into flying off by even the slightest movement. Of course, everything does get out of the way of the great spotted woodpecker. This comes exclusively to the peanut feeder, but the other feeders generally remain unvisited until she moves on. I think we have only one woodpecker visiting, a female.
Their sheer size means that wood pigeons generally, as they arrive, scare the other birds away. When something that big flies in, the average blue tit or chaffinch isn't going to stop to see whether it's a sparrow hawk or a pigeon, the thing to do is to head for the bushes, pdq! We can have three or four wood pigeons at a time. Sometimes they perch on the feeding station, looking inquisitively at the feeders, but of course they can't use them. Fortunately there are plenty of dropped seeds below for them to go at.
Squirrels manage to get to the feeders, despite the squirrel baffle we've put in. Occasionally I come out and shout at them, but mostly I can't be bothered. Today we had a little spat between a squirrel and a wood pigeon that was briefly quite entertaining. It wasn't much of a fight in the end! I added a new feeder to the smaller feeding station in our front garden this afternoon. I wonder whether it will tempt the local house sparrows? They were the first birds to find the original feeder at this site, but hardly visit now that the local blue and great tits have started using it.
Coal tits routinely take sunflower hearts and secrete them in various hiding places, including hanging baskets and plant pots. A single bird will whizz to and fro, removing quite a few seeds. Coal tits seem quite fussy, and will reject several before deciding on one they like, so a fair few seeds get deposited under the feeders, benefiting the chaffinches which are not as agile as many of the other birds, and the dunnocks which always feed on the ground.
Today we've had a nuthatch. This particular nuthatch seems to be quite a timid bird, compared to the rather macho nuthatches we've seen elsewhere. Nuthatches can generally move most other birds off the feeders, but this one seems quite oblivious to the fact that in general other birds will get out of its way; it is easily spooked into flying off by even the slightest movement. Of course, everything does get out of the way of the great spotted woodpecker. This comes exclusively to the peanut feeder, but the other feeders generally remain unvisited until she moves on. I think we have only one woodpecker visiting, a female.
Their sheer size means that wood pigeons generally, as they arrive, scare the other birds away. When something that big flies in, the average blue tit or chaffinch isn't going to stop to see whether it's a sparrow hawk or a pigeon, the thing to do is to head for the bushes, pdq! We can have three or four wood pigeons at a time. Sometimes they perch on the feeding station, looking inquisitively at the feeders, but of course they can't use them. Fortunately there are plenty of dropped seeds below for them to go at.
Squirrels manage to get to the feeders, despite the squirrel baffle we've put in. Occasionally I come out and shout at them, but mostly I can't be bothered. Today we had a little spat between a squirrel and a wood pigeon that was briefly quite entertaining. It wasn't much of a fight in the end! I added a new feeder to the smaller feeding station in our front garden this afternoon. I wonder whether it will tempt the local house sparrows? They were the first birds to find the original feeder at this site, but hardly visit now that the local blue and great tits have started using it.
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
Bird Report
Lovely today to have our garden full of blackbirds! We record the birds we see on a form supplied by our local Wildlife Trust, with a 1 for a bird seen only once at a time, 2 where two or more of a species are seen at the same time, and 3 where we manage to see ten or more all at once. For the first time ever, blackbirds scored a ten (I counted eleven, in fact), and therefore got marked 3 on the list, to join blue tits and chaffinches.
They were gorging themselves on rowan berries, so I suppose they'll soon move on - there aren't very many left. I had put out some bits of apple too, but the squirrels seem to have made off with most of those. We've also had a bullfinch and a goldfinch today, always nice to see them, and a great spotted woodpecker has started to visit our nut feeder. It's lovely to watch the birds, but sometimes a bit of an effort to keep up with their appetites!
They were gorging themselves on rowan berries, so I suppose they'll soon move on - there aren't very many left. I had put out some bits of apple too, but the squirrels seem to have made off with most of those. We've also had a bullfinch and a goldfinch today, always nice to see them, and a great spotted woodpecker has started to visit our nut feeder. It's lovely to watch the birds, but sometimes a bit of an effort to keep up with their appetites!
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