A water fountain in my garden has become a favorite drinking/bathing spot for birds from near and far, all kinds of birds that I could not name. I have never been good at remembering names. I am not the typical bird-watcher who knows every name of every bird by color, shape, or sound. I do, however, watch my birds. I can confidently report that they, like us humans, come in all sizes and colors and shapes. Birds began coming to my garden after a cold spring in upstate NY.

When it was warm enough and the soil was not soggy, I have worked in my garden. It took years to get to know the soil because my yard used to be covered by a demanding lawn. I had to convince the ground that my planned poly-garden would give it life. Lawns are bad for the environment; they require too much water and need fertilizers to be free of weeds, which are a natural biodiversity. It took reducing the size of the lawn, followed by cycles of planting perennials of different sizes, shapes and colors mixed with annuals and vegetables to get rid of layers of chemicals. Now, tomatoes and roses and honeysuckle flourish, support and nurture each other.

This poly-culture garden attracts birds that give it life. The birds communicate, and mourn and flirt and fight. When the dominant/strong approach the fountain the smaller ones, wise and experienced, move away fluttering, waiting for their turn. All of them seem to like what I plant.

My garden in early morning hours is symphonic and looks like a five star restaurant/spa for birds. They sing, greet friends and nibble and the place that just two months ago was winter/snow deserted is now full of life. My garden has become free of chemicals that could poison birds or any living creature that dwells or pass through it. The remaining lawn is more weeds than grass. The birds like it. I can tell from the way they come down to find food. I take an interest in their life. Once, looking out through the window over the kitchen sink I saw on my deck a flock of sparrows flying frantically, coming down and flying out. I went out and saw on the floor a dead sparrow and her community letting her know that it is grieving. It was heartbreaking to see their circling the dead bird. I waited respectfully and finally took the bird to bury it in the garden. I remembered that one of the most important Mitzvot in Judaism has been to attend a funeral. While I know little about birds, I am an anthropologist and I understand rituals. When I was done burying the sparrow, the birds flew away.

Every year I increase the variety of plants, each enriching the soil. Collectively they provide nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium and various vitamins and minerals, which add organic matter to the soil and give it life. The plants’ diverse gifts to the garden remind me of the building of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle in the Book of Exodus. The text describes how each Israelite brought whatever gift they could give to build the Mishkan; some brought gold and silver, others brought just a bit of olive oil. All gifts were used admixed, yet each carried equal value. And God, we read, came to dwell among the people. The Torah text becomes a source to apprehend how each plant, big and small like the Israelites’ gifts, brings something unique to make a garden. When I put my hands in the soil to plant or give older plants room to breath, my fingers breath rich loving earth grateful and giving.

Every year with the awakening of the garden my life takes a different turn. Planting and watching the birds in my yard I know that it is finally here, the long awaited warm weather, sunshine, the sweet smell of honeysuckle and the Aphrodite shrub with large, fragrant bright red magnolia-like blooms, and tables on my deck. My physical living space expands. An awning now spreads over my deck, which sprouts colorful pillows and three tables. Two round ones to welcome friends and family. And a desk fit for breakfast and my computer.

I could not ask for a better place to write. I don’t have a writing routine. Unlike some of my favorite authors I don’t have a schedule. For days in the winter I live with narratives in my head. “Oh, this would be a good story.” Yet, I don’t write them down. Stories fly away like birds. Like birds, some come back, and the moment I start writing they get their own wings.

You can’t be a writer in your head. A writer is always in the process of becoming in putting words on paper. Now with my garden in bloom sitting on the deck, my fingers type on the MacBook abut birds claiming residency here. No borders, no passports needed to dwell here. And I read on my typed taking-off draft that 13,000 children have been ripped away from the arms of mothers and fathers, asylum seekers who now live in cages on the Southern border. What I thought would be a short essay about my garden has taken off. The written winged-words insist that within and around our good moments there are the marginalized, the excluded, the asylum seekers of the caged children fleeing horror. Our good moments are a source of strength, a rocking opportunity to make a difference. Our joys are the very ground on which we grow astonishing ability to reduce suffering and become active participants in Tikkun Olam.