The past few weeks have been strange. Due to bitter windchills, ice, and thickly falling snow, I have found myself largely homebound, almost as though quarantined. Long walks have become impossible. My once normal routines have faded to memories.
Of course, there have been compensations. I’ve enjoyed spending more time with my husband, Marc, and more cuddles on the couch with our dog, Lukie. And I’ve been thrilled to see old friends passing through my backyard.
When I was six, my family moved from southwestern Montana to central Illinois. I don’t think my young mind fully grasped what the move meant for us. Instead of feeling sorrow for what we were leaving behind—gorgeous mountain scenery, elk herds in the field across from our house, the crystal-clear air of Big Sky country—I remember feeling excitement. Simply starting something new was exciting, but even more than that, I remember two specific discoveries that made my arrival in Illinois shine: acorns and cardinals. Montana didn’t have either, so both were new to me. I could hardly believe they were real.
My brother and I roved through the Illinois woodlands, collecting grocery bags full of acorns, which I hoarded in our garage. Every so often, I would go out to hold an acorn in my hand, marveling at its smooth perfection, the crisscross pattern of its cap. But perfection cannot last. After a few weeks, I was devastated to see that my priceless treasures had turned to moldy sludge. Acorns, I learned, were best left out in the woods.
On the other hand, northern cardinals were an Illinois wonder that I could watch from my backyard. My parents loved birds and always kept the birdfeeders full. Whenever cardinals visited, I was captivated by the scarlet flash of their feathers. Imagine it—a vivid red bird, appearing suddenly from the sky, almost close enough to touch! Sometimes, I could hear the cardinals singing in our yard, a promise of enchantment just out of sight.
Cardinals were my first favorite Illinois birds, but through my parents, I learned the names of our other little feathered neighbors. Chickadees, nuthatches, titmice, and juncos. Goldfinches, purple finches, and house finches. Downy, hairy, and red-bellied woodpeckers. Northern flickers and mourning doves. In time, they were as familiar to me as my family, my friends. They made me smile. I could count on them whenever I needed a lift.
These past few strange weeks, I have needed many a lift—and my childhood friends have come through. Undeterred by the snow and cold, bright-eyed little chickadees have perched on our pine boughs, calling out their name: “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!” before flitting down to the feeder for sunflower seeds. They have sometimes been joined by tufted titmice, darling little gray birds in the chickadee family, or by woodpeckers on the hunt for mealworms. Nuthatches, with their long bill and soft, clucking call, have occasionally let me get within steps of the feeder when I ventured outside to refill it.
Some birds have been warier. When I’ve included peanuts in the seed dispersal, I could count on local blue jays to broadcast the event to their clan—but not to swoop in until I was safely indoors. Meanwhile, dark-eyed juncos have gathered on the snowy ground, seeming grateful for the seeds spilled by other birds, as well as for the dry coneflower seedheads left standing in my garden. Various species of finches have flocked in the trees, singing almost impossibly cheerful songs.
Then, of course, there are the cardinals. Toward evening most days, a pair has come to the feeder, sharing seeds and filling me with that old childhood sense of wonder. How can such an amazing creature be real?
And yet it is. The beauty of the world takes my breath away.
