burning hand

Off to the forest. 

I sing as we head into the Ramble. A young boy named Asher wants to hold my hand. He always wants to hold my hand.

Come follow, follow, follow. 

I continue singing. Children run behind me, in front of me, all around. Caregivers and parents are yelling various forms of “slow down" or "stop." Me, I prefer to let them run. Run wild, I say. 

We stop at a small opening in the woods. There are bird feeders hanging on several trees. In the winter, volunteers keep the feeders filled. The winter regulars are tufted titmice, house sparrows, and cardinals. We watch the birds for a moment. Some of the children are uninterested. Instead, they’d rather run. 

I remember that I have in my pocket some birdseed I brought from home. As we are all stopped, I tell Asher I'm going to feed the birds. I let go of his hand, take some seed out of my pocket, and place it in my hand. I open my palm and hold it out. 

A moment. 

Then, a delicate, friendly tufted titmouse lands in my hand. Her feet are both fragile and strong at once. She takes a few nibs of the seed. The titmice like the sunflower seeds. I know this from past experiences. And sure enough, she picks out a sunflower seed and flies away. 

A few more tufted titmice land in my hand grabbing the last of the sunflower seeds. 

Then, I see him. 

A vibrant cardinal lands on a nearby tree, eyeing me. I’ve never had a cardinal land in my hand. While we see them often, they tend to be more distrusting of humans than others. 

My breathing slows. I know he wants this seed. 

The children and caregivers become quiet. They too feel the shift in the air.

Then it happens. 

The bright redbird lands in my hand, steadily, firmly, majestically. He is bigger than the titmice, his body taking up most of my hand. His feathers are a beautiful, deep red that is so starkly contrasting from the brown winter forest it almost seems unnatural. He perches in my hand and begins pecking at the seed. All the while, he never looks away from me. He is staring at me, keeping his eyes fixed on me–unsure and distrusting of my human nature.

I am transported. I no longer remember that I’m leading a class of 20 people. Right now, my existence is just me and this redbird. 

Red bird, red bird I got good luck. 

My siblings and I used to tease each other with this phrase whenever we saw a cardinal growing up in Georgia. Whoever laid eyes on the cardinal first, could claim the good fortune.

It wasn’t until my grandparents died that redbirds took on new meaning in the family lore. They became spirits of our loved ones that passed away. Any time my mother saw one in our yard, she’d say “Hey, Nama” or “Mornin’ Papa.” 

Redbirds were gentle reminders that our loved ones still exist among us. 

When Mama died, my relationship with cardinals took another shift. This time I began to view them as Divine presence. These common, everyday birds were symbols of good luck, the spirits of passed loved ones, and God. 

Now, here I am in Central Park, hand open, heart open as this magical, revered, spiritual being graces me with his presence. 

I can feel my heart pounding through all my winter layers. 

“Bird!” A young boy named Brody reaches out to grab the bird. 

The cardinal flies away. 

My hand closes as I drop the rest of the birdseed to the ground. 

Brody’s mother tries to explain to him that we must be respectful of birds and that we can’t grab them. He is 3 years old, and I’m doubtful he understands her argument as much as he understands his lived experience. His sudden movement triggered the bird’s sudden departure. 

I give Brody and his mother a smile as we continue our walk. Asher reaches for my hand. I give him my other hand as I slip the hand that fed the redbird into my pocket. It still burns from my encounter with Divine.