Wendy Weiger on “Death of a Catbird”

In my writing, I explore my relationship with the natural world.  I try to capture the essence of emotional and spiritual experiences I seek in outdoor wanderings. Living in northern Maine, I’m blessed with endless opportunities for hiking, paddling, and snowshoeing. Even when life gets hectic, I carve out time to roam the woods and waters.  In every excursion, I find nourishment for my senses and soul.

However, the most deeply moving experiences can’t be scheduled. If I work at my computer for much of the week, then head into the woods for a couple of days off, I won’t always check “have a profound experience” off my inner to-do list. Meaningful encounters happen at unexpected times, in unlikely places, often when things don’t go as planned.

The events I describe in “Death of a Catbird” unfolded in my yard, over the course of several days when I was involved with ordinary, routine affairs.  Shortly thereafter, I went on a solo backpacking trek into Baxter State Park, a wilderness preserve in the heart of the Maine Woods. For three nights, I was the only human on Wassataquoik Lake, an expanse of cold, clear water surrounded by rugged granite mountains. My mind was free from the constraints of required tasks and the distractions of electronic media. My thoughts kept returning to the dead catbird and its bereaved mate, and the narrative I present here began to take shape.

It may seem ironic that in such a magnificent natural setting – home to more elusive avian species – my thoughts would dwell on humble backyard feeder birds. But the catbirds reminded me that the wild is not limited to remote places far from our everyday lives. Even in towns and cities, the wild is around us, though we often fail to notice it. Our neighbors include creatures who, though they are not human, are fellow beings nonetheless. That understanding makes my world feel richer, more alive.

Writing this piece helped me work through some of my own feelings of bereavement.  In the five years preceding the catbird’s window strike, multiple members of my community died. The losses included my mother, as well as a dearly beloved friend who had been a steadfast support during my mother’s final illness and beyond. I didn’t fully realize the extent to which I was still in mourning. My empathy for the dead catbird’s mate released feelings I had suppressed in my desire to move forward with my life. My lingering grief and loneliness welled up from a dark place deep inside me and flowed into the light, where healing could begin.

I’m grateful for what I learned from my catbird neighbors. I’m sorry it came as the result of death and loss on their part. My hope is that, by sharing my experience, I will pass the gifts I received from them on to others.