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| The Shape of a Heart |
It’s icy cold outside. I saw a dead junco behind the woodpile this morning when I went out to get an armful to start the woodstove. There were no marks on him, maybe he froze to death. The rest of the juncos, nuthatches, and chickadees are busy eating black sunflower seeds at the feeders to keep their energy up. It’s hard to survive winter out there, and not everyone makes it.
My daughter has a disabled duck named Biscuit. On her birthday two years ago we took her to a hatchery to pick out a couple of ducklings. She had a little flock of ducks during her childhood and in a fit of nostalgia was missing her favorites, the Pekins. Pekins are those snowy white ducks with little beady black eyes, bright orange bills and feet. They are big, fat ducks that are usually farmed for, sadly, Peking Duck, or Duck L’Orange.
At the hatchery she had her choice among all the robust, healthy, squawking ducklings. She chose a fine looking big duckling who eventually became Buddy. While scoping out the others she noticed a small one being trampled by the others . . . That crippled baby drake that became her Biscuit.
Biscuit’s never been right. Something is wrong with his leg and foot, and he has been on the brink of death more than once, especially in the winter months. He can’t stand well, and walking is painful to watch. His crippled body forms a C shape, and when he tries to do regular duck things like mate with Buddy or preen himself to spread oil on his feathers he falls over backwards. Although he has never been right in his body, he’s got spirit. Biscuit doesn’t give up, and keeps doing his best with what he’s got.
Biscuit gets by much more easily in the summer. The cold rain challenging since he can’t stay dry as other ducks do by preening themselves. Their oiled feathers shed water and they stay toasty warm under their down coats. Not Biscuit. He’s wet and cold, consistently losing the weight and fat that ensures his survival. He would certainly would be dead if it weren’t for my daughter. For that matter, he most likely would not have made it out of the hatchery.
Keeping Biscuit dry and alive is a creative challenge. He’s frequently washed off with warm water, bundled like a baby in old towels, given moisture drawing bedding in his dog kennel and kept in the garage when conditions were too threatening for him. It’s a lot of work. The logical question is . . . Why keep a duck alive that clearly would have been out of the gene pool early on? The only answer I have for that question is that something about his plight touched my daughter, called to her in the same way that Harold, the mallard with the broken wing called to her. Harold lives with us as well . . . two disabled drakes and a very fat, healthy duck.
The glue that makes this oddity of nature work is the care of my daughter, of one person. Why does she care? I think the answer is simple . . . they delight her, make her smile. Maybe in the end that’s all the reason anyone ever needs to do anything. Maybe, if we all got out of our heads for just a few moments and acted on the simple, intuitive impulse of what calls to us, what delights us . . . Maybe, the world would be a better place.
I struggle with people on street corners holding signs that are asking for help. I feel inhuman not to do something, and conflicted about what to do. I’ve heard all the arguments that supporting this behavior perpetuates a harmful system. I know many are charlatans, many are drug addicted, and still that doesn’t help this hollow feeling I have when I don’t respond. They’re people with beating hearts and eyes that look into mine. What is the human response? I’ve tried granola bars, poems wrapped around $2 bills, food coupons, and still I have no peace.
I remember one man on a street corner with a sign that simply said, “Starving.” His sign pierced my heart. We went to the store and got him some food. It was something. It wasn’t enough. I wonder about him today. Where he is . . . IF he still IS.
Truth is, when I see a plea as poignant as “Starving,” all the concern of drug addiction or alcoholism goes away. I don’t care how he got there . . . he had a sign that asked for help in one, wretchedly horrifying word. All the reasons NOT to help him shattered into pieces when struck with that arrow shot straight to my heart.
There is so much blatant injustice in this world. I don’t think there is any way to figure it all out. I don’t think the answers lie solely in reason, in policy, in law. If we, as sisters and brothers of all those who hold out their signs, their empty hands, and pleading eyes do not act, there is no hope. Neither can any one of us do more than our share. If it takes a village to raise a child, surely, it takes all of humanity to begin to heal the gaping wounds on our planet.
In saying this, shouldn’t the resources used to care for two disabled ducks be used to feed and shelter the homeless? Clearly these creatures would have died if left on their own, and a solid case could be made for letting them go. And yet . . . Who’s to say what life is valuable, and warrants care. I think here lies the conundrum of value exclusively according to hierarchy. Nature has her own hierarchy we call survival of the fittest, and yet a goose will stay behind the migrating flock when her mate has a wing down. That isn’t practical, it’s an impulse . . . perhaps of some kind of care.
When my daughter plucked Biscuit from a certain death in the hatchery she was responding to an impulse of care. I think this impulse is important across the globe, between all creatures. We humans can have our caring clogged by matters of policy, values, importance. Care is a simple thing . . . you feel it, or you don’t. Care is a simple thing that grows with each response. Try it. Responding from an impulse of basic, ordinary care without thinking it to death is like a little water on a seed lying in the soil of your soul. Soon it begins to soften, sprout roots, and reach for the life giving energy of the sun where the seed will become a strong plant giving back to life.
Care isn’t some flimsy, new agey feel good thing . . . It’s gutsy, tangible, real. It’s the stuff of regeneration, and we need regeneration on this planet. Who can say what small acts of kindness will do down the line. Actions that bring smiles to our faces, and warmth to our hearts create goodwill within the human family . . . and goodwill can only increase our compassion. And, compassion is what we need in this moment here on earth.
Dare to let yourself be moved by it all. Have the courage to look directly into the eyes of the man on the street corner with a sign in his hands, feel what you feel, and ask only one question . . . Is this mine to do? If the answer comes back yes, don’t second guess yourself. None of us can take it all on, but we each can accomplish what calls to us, what’s ours to do. Perhaps together, we can achieve more than any one of us thought possible.
That’s what this artist is thinking about today . . .
About the painting . . . The human heart is so much more than the amazing physical organ that gives us life. The heart is the center of us, the place that reaches beyond time. The heart is the locus of our lives here and on the other side . . . Shouldn’t we know the shape, nature, and size of our own heart’s? Shouldn’t we be paying attention when it speaks? Although I can’t quote the source, I love this . . . “When your heart speaks, take good notes.” Take notes and act on them! Dare to care . . .