Linnetontheleaf

Today I darned a sock. This is not another piece about how we locked-down urban life-forms are all learning new skills, especially homely ones like making sourdough. It is an exploration of the psychology behind that act. I have never darned a sock in my life; it never even occurred to me. Socks are cheap and (until now) readily available — if one gets a hole, throw it away and buy more! (I do at least have the thrifty/practical protocol of wearing only generic black socks, so that singletons can always find new matching mates.)

But is a new mindset creeping into my entitled, spoiled, consumerist brain? I find myself stopping to think before using something up or throwing something away — will that be easy to replace, with all the stores closed and Amazon deliveries running late? Or alternatively, is that thing even needed? I’ve worn nothing but jeans and thrift-store tops for nearly two months now, some of them in the final stages of viability. Two favorites are fraying at the cuffs and collar. In the past, I’d permit myself a foray to our excellent local thrift store to replace them. But even if that were possible now, it doesn’t seem necessary; my remaining wardrobe is ample for waiting out a pandemic at home.

I only get antsy when I find empty shelves at the grocery store, for those items are truly essential. We’re assured there are no real shortages, just supply-chain disruptions, panic buying and delayed restocking. But having never seen a grocery store picked clean before (except when a blizzard is forecast, and then only briefly), I admit this causes me to panic a little — though I try not to contribute to the problem by over-buying and hoarding.

So, what I am doing, increasingly consciously, is examining my landscape and deciding what is truly necessary and of worth, in these conditions in particular, but also in the post-pandemic future. There are deeper layers to explore; I am only scratching the surface with my tiny exercise in self-awareness, darning a sock.

During the last couple of days, I’ve finally gotten around to doing some of the sorts of things I thought I would do during this ‘stay at home’ period. When I first quit going to the city to work, I took on a few projects, such as refinishing the dining room table and spring-cleaning the garden, because the opportunity seemed so unusual and precious, and I figured it would be short-lived. But as the crisis mounted, I lost my appetite for household projects; I’ve even lost my taste for reading (usually a favorite form of entertainment), unless it’s about corona virus. So, like many folks, I bet, I’ve gotten a lot less done than I would have expected.

But I’ve taken a few emotional hits lately and my usual response to such events is to get busy. So in the past few days, I’ve cleaned and starched a set of placemats crocheted by my grandmother (an exacting one-by-one job which I’ve put off for about three decades), scraped an old security-firm sticker from a window (another task postponed for years, when I realized how cemented it seemed to be; indeed, the process consumed about an hour!), and sorted a messy under-sink cache of ziplocks, food wraps and the new, ecologically-sound waxed-fabric food coverings. These homely pastimes are the sort of thing that would have once inspired great satisfaction — I finally got to that, hooray! I’m free! Now it won’t be hanging over my head for another decade.

But that’s no longer the case. I mean, I’m glad I’ve accomplished these things, but under the circumstances, who can get even mildly excited about such things? The mere fact that I have such things to do underscores my privilege — I have a home to hunker down in, and possessions to Marie-Kondo; I don’t have to spend my nights in a homeless shelter petrie dish. I can work from my spare bedroom; I don’t have to don protective gear and care for the sick or pick up trash or stock grocery shelves. I don’t even have any stricken loved ones to worry about and grieve for. The sufferings of this plague are very unequally distributed.

There’s lots of hunkering-down advice out there, and most of it is offensively romanticized. Considering the cataclysm that Covid-19 represents for so many people (many of them already exploited, disadvantaged and vulnerable), it’s no wonder I take so little satisfaction in my refinished table and starched placemats.

The other morning in the park, I happened upon a parent mourning dove feeding a pair of fluffy fledglings with the ‘crop milk’ secreted by several species of birds (mainly pigeons and flamingos — both sexes), which they regurgitate into the mouths of their young. I was puzzled to see this happening in April, when I’d have thought mourning doves would have barely courted and paired, so can’t explain why this one had young still to feed. (Maybe the youngsters came home because of the corona virus?)

Because the behavior was interesting, I stood a long while observing the birds through my binoculars. I have probably seen mourning doves nearly every day of my life, and would have told you I knew exactly what this bird looked like — but I doubt I’d ever looked at one through binoculars.  The bird was also at eye level, not on the ground at my feet as usual, so I had a different viewpoint.  What a revelation!

Did you know that mourning doves have azure-blue rings around their eyes? They are quite spectacular! Did you know they have a dusting of iridescent yellow on their necks? Have you ever noticed the pretty rosy-buffy color of their underparts? Probably not, as you’re usually looking down on them. How about the dainty spots which adorn their backs and wings? All of these characteristics had completed escaped me, in a bird I assumed that I knew well.

As I stood there taking all this in, I even began to question if this was a mourning dove at all, or perhaps some special, unfamiliar sort of pigeon. I had to come home and open the guidebook and the Cornell bird site to be positive that I had actually been looking at a ubiquitous, utterly familiar mourning dove.

I suppose this is what happens when we stop and consider long and thoughtfully about something which we assume that we know — we discover that we don’t at all. There’s a lesson here for our present Covid-19 episode, when our experiences are so limited. Maybe there are only mourning doves to look at, but if you really look at them, you’ll find yourself surprised by their unexpected beauty.

Going on bird walks is one of my favorite spring hobbies. Central Park in New York City is a surprisingly great birding location during migration, and I also have several fruitful environments close to my home, including a large Frederick Law Olmstead park in my suburban town. But despite my interest, I’ve never been a very good birder — I’m dependent on better eyes than mine to find the birds, better ears to hear their songs, and more knowledgeable folks to identify them by their field marks, behavior, habitat, etc. But this year I’m on my own! I’m also adjusting to a different pace of birding — confined to the local park and my own backyard, I encounter fewer birds, so each one seems even more valuable and interesting. Any competent birders who are reading this should stop now, as my ignorance and naivete are likely to annoy you!

I have never developed the discernment necessary to appreciate the myriad so-called LBJs (little brown jobs), but early in migration, when there’s not a lot to see, I find that even I can enjoy them. Until last week, for instance, I had always overlooked song sparrows — but what a shame, for they are delightful! Upon close examination, you see they’re not just streaky brown birds but very pretty little creatures, with stripey breasts and russet-colored backs and wings. And what endearing behaviors — I often caught them hopping daintily along the canal which flows through the park, or perched conspicuously on bare branch proudly singing their little hearts out.

Even common grackles can command your attention when there’s little else going on. Although they annoy me at my feeders, aggressively shouldering aside more ‘desirable’ birds, I do enjoy the iridescent plumage on their heads.  But I’d never noticed how their tails appear to be oriented vertically in flight, almost like a dorsal fin. I’ve now also observed their clear preference for the park’s darkest, thickest evergreens, from which issue their constant harsh, noisy cries. I also enjoyed watching one taking an exuberant bath in the canal on a very cold morning. What fortitude!

I was surprised to observe something new about the ubiquitous mourning dove. Have you ever noticed how they sit as still as stones in trees? They often choose trees with gray bark to match their plumage, so they are perfectly camouflaged! Study the trees with a careful eye, and suddenly a docile, motionless bird might leap into focus, almost with a shock, as you have been unaware of the presence of a living creature. These slow-flying birds must be favorite prey of raptors, so have learned how to stay hidden.

I’ve also enjoyed watching the behaviors of paired birds, which I might not have noticed in the past. Cardinal couples check in with each other constantly, trading little ‘chip’ calls, as if conversing. Song sparrows forage in obvious pairs, remaining close to one another as they move along the stream bank. I also enjoy watching a pair of mallards sailing lazily along side by side, knowing that they’ll soon be trailed by a flotilla of ducklings. And how do the paired mourning doves execute their perfectly synchronized swerves and veers over my head?

Maybe my identifications skills will improve too, now that I’m on my own. Birding with a knowledgeable guide, I had never committed to memory the difference between a golden-crowned kinglet (yellow and black stripes on head) and a ruby-crowned one (no stripes); nor the russet cap which distinguishes the palm from the pine warbler. My ancient brain is no longer very fertile soil for information like this to germinate, but maybe just a bit will take root!

Meanwhile I’m grateful for a hobby which is still accessible when nearly everything else is shuttered. Before mid-March, if you got a little bored or antsy, you could go shopping or have a meal out, or  meet friends for a meal. Now none of those amusements are available, so I turn gratefully to the birds.