This morning a friend sent me a YouTube link of a hummingbird, rescued by a man who returned it each day to the park where he found it.  After a few days, the hummingbird’s mama appeared, feeding it again -- sometimes in the hands of the man who rescued it.  It was a touching documentation; a heartwarming story.

            I watched the five minutes of video intently. I identified with it.  Not with the poor little hummingbird whose injured wing started the whole tale – although God knows my own wings have been broken and healed many times over.  And not with the gentle man who found and nursed the little creature – although my Buddhist studies would applaud this work.  (That hummingbird could have been his mother in another life…)

               No, I identified with the valiant, if exhausted, mother hummingbird who came back into the picture to feed her little one, despite the giant stranger whose intentions might have been either to bandage a wing or feed Junior to the cat.  She observed  circumstances and decided to ignore the danger.  A mother after my own heart.  (Or maybe a Dad – I have no knowledge of hummingbird gender identification.)

            My own little hummingbirds flew early and angry into their own lives.  Did I hover too close?  Not provide enough nectar?  Devise too many rules for the nest?  I’m not sure.

            They flew blindly into dangerous territory, and suffered injuries and calamities galore, while I watched from the bushes, beak full of sugar water, hoping for an opening. 

            “You’re living in a crank house?  And you like it there because there are no rules?”  (This lasted until the first morning she awoke to find her stereo and CDs stolen.  Maybe a little boundary recognition is a good thing?  Off to find a roommate…)

            “How about coming for dinner every Sunday.  You can do laundry…”   (and I can eyeball you to see if you are nourished and clothed.)

            “How can living in a studio apartment in a drug-ridden neighborhood possibly be better than your room here at home??” (I suppose a certain amount of waiting on tables and night school is good for the soul, but really, at what age does reason set in)

“How can you be pregnant?  You aren’t even dating anyone…”  (Monthly stipends -- aka: sugar water -- while you finish school and parent my grandson. Retirement is overrated anyway...)

            They flapped about on the ground while I furiously beat my wings, watching them elude dark fates, lawn mowers, and hungry raccoons. 

 ***

            In the YouTube story, the bird was rehabilitated at a wildlife refuge, and released into the wild.

            Tell me: where are the wildlife refuges for adolescent daughters who need a nice little furnished cage while they get their wings under them?

            All I know is that I can tell you exactly what that mother hummingbird was thinking when that little one took off and started nosing flowers on its own.  She was thinking, “Hallelujah, Darling!  I’ll be over here with a good book and a glass of wine.  Give me a call when you get a minute.”