Turkeys in the Midst

The bluebird of happiness came to sit on my shoulder. It likely took its cue from Disney, manufacturer of happiness southern California style, Jimney Cricket’s singing Zippity Doo Dah (“there’s a bluebird on my shoulder, it’s the truth, it’s
actual, everything is satisfactual”). But the poor fellow failed to see the pane of glass between me and him. Instead of reaching the intended perch of my
shoulder, he careened straight into my closed driver’s side car window. In one split
second I saw him out of the corner of my eye, heard an awful crack and the bird
fell to the ground with a thud. I kept right on driving because what else could
I do? Should I have called some animal rescue agency -- or the street clean–up
crew?

That must have been close to 20 years ago in Palms, a section of Los Angeles that
arguably has fewer obvious manifestations of happiness, or at least affluence,
than the Palisades. But the bluebird haunts me. I wonder what would have
happened had the window been open. Metaphorically, it might have made me really happy. On the other, more probable hand, I might have been the one who careened into another vehicle had a bird flown into my car while I was driving. The
truth is I would have been absolutely terrified of a living breathing bird
traveling inside my car with me, whether it was flying around frantically or
sitting serenely on my shoulder. Its instant death might have been a blessing
for us both.

The bluebird’s demise brings me to more birds -- turkeys. So many people refer to Thanksgiving as Turkey Day. Maybe the idea that there is one day on which we are required to be thankful for one’s blessings is just too daunting. It seems almost a religious mandate, which most people are loathe to willingly accept upon
themselves. Can’t I just be thankful every day? So let’s call the day what it really is, the day we all sit around and eat turkey and too much food while hanging out with our families and/or friends, some watching football (not including me, football is not my thing). Turkey Day sounds frivolous and fun, non-binding and ‘lite’ as in nothing too heavy to digest, intestinally and metaphorically both. Thanksgiving sounds somber, quiet, heavy and … well, about as fun as a Pilgrim. Weren’t the Pilgrims the same people who wore only gray, refused to dance, and not too many years after throwing the big fiesta of thankfulness, began to burn women and girls at the stake in droves for witchcraft? Turkey Day sounds benign while Thanksgiving sounds frightening. Remember The Wicker Man movie (1973
English version, not more recent American one which I haven’t seen), where the police sergeant visiting the weird island during its spring pagan festival ends up as
the sacrificial offering? If you fail to give thanks properly, will the same fate befall you as the girls in Salem – or the turkey?

More birds have been on my mind. The blue one failed to arrive, but tiny humming birds come into my backyard frequently, buzzing like bees and sucking the nectar out of the stems of long orange flowers. The hummingbirds always make me happy. Many years ago I dreamed of finding three dying hummingbirds on my bed, one of each of the three primary colors; a bright red, yellow and glorious electric blue. It was one of the saddest dreams I’ve ever had. I knew I was responsible for their deaths, somehow. They just lay there limply, the life slowly draining out of them while I stood by and watched mutely, too numb, scared or I-don’t-know-what to help them. Now, each time I am visited by the frenetically alive humming birds, it’s as if that bad dream is unwound a bit and the birds come back to life. They resurrected themselves, ‘we are alive’ they seem to tweet as they hover and dance back and forth in my yard. Yet they always fly away. They will never, ever be caught – not even on camera. I had my chance, they seem to say as they appear and disappear, sometimes appearing so quickly I wonder if I
dreamed them. But no, I know they’re real. And totally ephemeral.

So what about that turkey? It’s neither a sadly misguided bluebird that gave its life
for its failed mission. Nor is it the free-flying energetic tiny bursts of bird
energy that seem to give me back something that once disappeared but come at
their own choosing and leave just as suddenly. The turkey is a giant fowl that
sits both as honored guest and as the centerpiece of the dinner. It’s a conundrum. Yet Thanksgiving without the bird would not be the same. We almost assume that the turkey wants to be there. Yet how could it? Of course it would rather be alive doing whatever it is turkeys do. But there it is, and we dig in, happy to have lean protein and a chance to be a bit gooey for our gratefulness. It’s not very cool to be thankful unless you’re a celebrity being interviewed for a charity event at which corporate sponsors give your guests goody bags and everyone tweets about it afterward. Actually being thankful for your daily life is not easy. Daily life can be repetitive, monotonous, mundane.Tragically the same, day in and day out. Note to self: that’s why it’s called daily life.

That ungraceful, fat turkey, once a year, takes us away from the mundane. We might even think for short time while we’re eating the turkey breast with gravy and stuffing and green beans how much we love our impossibly perfect kids, our imperfect spouse, our part-of-the-package in-laws, our deeply flawed if well-intentioned parents. It reminds me of this line in W.B. Auden’s poem “As I Walked Out One Evening” that the clocks chime toward the end: “’You shall love your crooked neighbour with your crooked heart’.”  If you read the entire work, you’ll see it’s about how everything passes, including youth, beauty and love; yes, it’s more than a little depressing. The last line reads “The clocks had ceased their chiming, And the deep river than on.” Like life.

Some things last. Many don’t. I have few answers on how to accept that, except that I’m glad there’s one day when the humble turkey gets me to acknowledge that whatever else has passed, there’s lots that’s still around. It’s all good … or as good as it gets.

And yet I can’t help but hope that the tragic bluebird’s little birdy soul is reincarnated and another determined bluebird might fly over one day and reach its destination, neck intact.