A Thank You Note

by Madeleine Kando

A bird, lying on his back, is showing his soft, white underbelly. His heart is heaving. He is dying. He is dying in my backyard. Maybe he flew against our large bay windows; maybe the giant red tailed hawk tried to catch him but missed and injured him. He is lying with his little feet stuck in the air. His breathing is slowing down; soon he will stop and lay still forever.

I am overwhelmed with the intensity of life and death that is playing out every second in this little corner of New England. The three emaciated deer licking my bird feeder, barely able to stand, barely having survived the harsh winter, their ribs showing under their dull colored hide. The hawk has caught a squirrel, but he has dropped it and the squealing tells me that he is hurt.

He will crawl into a hollow tree trunk, lick his wounds and survive, or die a painful death. His little body will add to the fertility of the soil in which my seedlings will be born. Tiny specks of green amongst the dead leaves and twigs left behind by the retreating winter. It is such hard work to die. It is even harder work to be born.


Now I am crying. For the bird, for the squirrel, for my friend Paul who died last week. I am crying, not only because I am sad, but also because I feel so immensely lucky that I am here. That someone chose me to be part of it all. If only I could keep this feeling of gratitude, this awareness of how precious life is, in my consciousness, every day, every minute.

There is a desire in all of us, to promote life and stave off death for as long as possible. That is why I spent weeks lugging my seedlings in and out of our house, protecting them from the frosty mornings. I know, they are just plants you'll tell me. Yes. They are amazing, the closest thing to magic that I can think of.  They don't cry, they don't whimper, they don't ask for anything. If they don't get what they need, they'll just die. They will not close their eyes and ask for your pity. I could step on them, burn them or pull them out like weeds. They wouldn't complain. My efforts to keep life’s breath going into my seedlings are my way of saying thank you. A gesture of gratitude. Like writing a thank you note and slide it under the door to the universe. I wouldn't want to disturb anyone out there, so a simple note will do.

Thank you for my life.

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