Three Billion Birds for Annabelle

And a plea for a planet to go slow

North America is down three billion birds since I was born. The current president’s family’s net worth has increased by almost $3 billion since he took office in January. Those two numbers are sitting sideways in my head today. Three billion birds especially.

Can you buy a bird with a dollar? I think so. Can you kill a bird chasing wealth? I think so.

I am overwhelmed, as are all thinking people, about what is happening to our planet. Sometimes I can go on about my business, make my phone calls, stare hard at the solid wall of green outside my window and find so much solace there. Sometimes I get stonewalled, and find myself crying for no reason.

Crying for every reason under the sun, I mean.

Three billion birds?

I’ve been borrowing anxiety all week. Worried about Jasper’s injuries. Worried about those three billion birds. Worried about midnight meetings in Washington and banned words and banned people.

I remind myself, like I remind my loved ones, that worried folks are no help to the world. Take care of your mental health, I say, so you can be useful. And you can’t save the world, you know, but you can host one native wildflower for a traveling pollinator. You can stop to help a turtle cross a road. Do what you can and stay sane.

For the record, three box turtles in three days benefitted from our assistance, but one unlucky boxie was smashed to smithereens on our very street, crossing our very road from one considerate yard to the next, in a neighborhood where folks value box turtles, and have polite conversations on our neighborhood Facebook group, and stop and speak to each other when we walk our dogs at night. Who drove so fast down our street that they killed this beautiful turtle who might have had thirty more years of life and reproduction ahead?

Who drove so fast down our street that they missed the box turtle on the road, the leaning pine tree in the yard over there, the neon green moss growing on the curb, the sunlight filtered by our heavy tree cover that streamed down onto the world in ribbons of gold?

Take care of my own mental health.

I had a glorious few rides recently, one at Orr Farms Rescue and Sanctuary, where animals are given a second chance. With Jasper out of commission, I rode Bluebell. Bluebell was a lovely girl, a little prancy, a lot opinionated, but accommodating to me, responsive, safe. Ten riders on ten horses rode into the forest when the rain came, down into the creek, following it along to reach other properties without trespassing, as if anyone really owns land at all. But we followed the rules.

Wildflowers greeted us on sunny, open slopes when we emerged from the overgrown, spring woods.

The next day I got good news about Jasper’s prognosis, good as long as we abide by a long, slow, metered recovery period.

Our granddaughters are finishing their school years. Annabelle, our oldest, called yesterday to show me her stack of certificates. She “graduated” from elementary school and now heads to sixth grade. Good Lord in heaven how can this be? I taught sixth grade for twenty-one years, and I know what she’s in for.

Hold on tight, baby girl. Keep riding horses.

There are three billion birds out there waiting for you, but you have to go slow to see them.

Annabelle Rose, leaving elementary school.

Younger granddaughter Ruby, also a horsegirl.