This story has been unfolding for about a year and a half. As I settled into the silhouette of "The Pigeon Woman" I've often wondered how the fuck I became her. She's not someone I had intentionally set out to be, unlike an artist, an aerobics instructor, a design strategist or a meditation teacher but I like being her. The Pigeons have taught me a lot about life, a lot about people, politics and a lot about pigeons.
I'm releasing the box set here an episode at a time, so if you're just joining in you may want to start at the beginning.
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episode two
Not everyone shared my growing fascination. Most people hate Pigeons. Why is it that Finches and Robins and Thrushes are okay but Pigeons aren’t?
Not everyone shared my growing fascination. Most people hate Pigeons. Why is it that Finches and Robins and Thrushes are okay but Pigeons aren’t?
Prejudice.
Discrimination.
Racism.
Xenophobia.
As I started to get to know them, I also started defending their rights. This nest and its inhabitants became a moral
journey for me, an ethical incubator and a perfect equanimity practice:
Regard all things with
equal measure and composure.
Hold difference with
balanced regard.
Human rights are human
rights, no matter what kind of human you are.
Bird rights are bird
rights, no what kind of bird you are.
A bird is a bird, just like
a human is a human.
Practise discernment, or curiosity even, rather
than judgement.
At a fundamental level all
sentient beings have a right to food, shelter, compassion and freedom.
If you don't eat you don't
shit and if you don't shit you die. Shitting is part of living, deal with
it and move on.
My little Pigeons were serving my Practice and my Politics.
As I become increasingly hooked on exploring The Antidote to Modern Life I spend a lot of time retreating from modern life. I have turned off all the notifications on my phone. I meditate a lot. I allow myself at least a 30 minute savasana a day. I read and listen to a lot of dharma. I live close to Buddhism. I practice and
teach mindfulness, meditation and yoga. I endeavour to carve an ethical
groove with my thoughts and actions. I work hard to live in all of my self, not
just my head or my fingertips. I think my purpose is finally shifting to
becoming whole rather than perfect.
The one irrefutable thing I have learned in developing good
Practice is that kindness sits at the core. Compassion: the courage to identify
with the feeling-tone of other beings, with a strong desire to propagate a sense of okay-as-you-are, through mindful being, human heart and moral action. Not in denial of the dark side, but in conjunction with it. Dark and light are symbiotic things, they depend on each other to exist.
I gathered the compassion I was cultivating on
the meditation cushion and shone it brightly on My Bird People.
Shoreditch was born first. Smallness has an
amazing way of pulling the heartstrings of humans. He was tiny and yet given he had come out of an egg that was smaller than him, he was also kind of huge. It was like one of those new-fangled expanding memory foam mattresses that know how to grow big but once they've popped don't try to squish them back into small again. I felt the preciousness of his tiny life and, in what may seem like an over inflated gesture to some humans, I knew I
must guard this tiny life with my own.
The birthing unit.
I gave Gladys and George space. I didn't want to
interfere with mama nature. I was terrified I'd fuck it up like humans can fuck
things up. I peeked in from time to time to make sure ’Ditch was still there
and twitching. He seemed to be. My heart swelled with the miracle of life born
from the vast-grey-concrete-lands.
Hoxton arrived three days later. Bizarrely over
those three days, Shoreditch had grown. So Shoreditch was tiny but Hoxton
was tinier. It was still very cold. It was still winter.
I filmed Hox desperately trying to find a way
under George's wing to get out of the cold. George didn't lift his wing and scoop him in. I waited for that parental gesture but it didn't happen. George is a pigeon not a human. I was still
clucking from my maternal-nature-lover-eco-warrior remove. I thought Hox had
just wiggled out and was trying to wiggle back in. I didn’t realise that
George was pushing Hoxton out of the nest. He had chosen Shoreditch as the strongest one. He had decided to try to get one through rather than lose them both.
I thought he was cute but he was dying.
I have never really been attached to creatures.
I like some and others spook me, but I’ve never loved them. The next
morning Hoxton was dead.
Hoxton was dead and Shoreditch was wiggling next
to him and George was eyeing me with his beady, fixed, “come any closer and
I’ll peck your hand off,” gaze.
That was the first time I really hurt in the
middle of me because I had become attached to the Pigeons. I felt the loss of
Hoxton acutely. A tiny, little, budding life, seeking refuge in my flowerpot,
sidelined from the lifeboat because he was weaker. I felt somehow responsible: I
could have saved his life, like I said I would, but I didn’t.
I hurt because little Hoxton died in my flowerpot.
I was powerless to that sentence. Even if I had scooped him out and tried to
shovel human mulch into him with an eyedropper, he likely still would have
died.
I left him in the nest, bowing deeply,
surrendering to nature’s churn.
'Ditch and dead Hox'
George and Gladys ate him.
Shoreditch was an ugly little fucker, feisty as
they come; hungry as modern-life-obesity. I showed a lot of people pictures of
‘Ditch. They all said the same two things:
Fuck he’s ugly.
I’ve never seen a baby Pigeon before.
And a lot of them said:
No one has ever seen a baby Pigeon before.
Although of course the last statement isn’t
true. I became quite smug about being an anomaly human, another against-the-grain
hashtag I could brandish.
Ugly little Shoreditch
I fell in love with Shoreditch quickly. Some may
say I was too in love with him. This is characteristic of my interaction with some beings: I believed him to be more than he was, pedastalling his little life as though he may save me or the world. I bestowed him with magical qualities, I made him more than a bird in a box, I made him into my cause, my fairytale, my side kick. All the children I had never had.
When The Pigeons arrived I was about a year into recovery from serious illness that had floored me. I left hospital and went into a long period of "chronic illness" that label you don't ever think you will own but once you do it's shakeable to everyone but yourself, you're stuck with it and only the other people with it will ever really understand that bad days are still bad days, even when they're invisible.
So it's not impossible that I projected the rescue I craved onto the birds. It's not impossible, but it was not conscious. I wanted to be saved from this life sentence and humans weren't up to the task.
I "anthropomorphised" him, a big word my brother taught
me when he was trying to explain that people in England turn
animals into people in a bizarre way, in a different way to our African home-tribes. So the pigeons were also a sign of my re-culturing. In humanising My Bird People I was adapting to the way of the indigenous folk to fit in more seamlessly, only I had missed a key detail: pigeons don't really count.
To me Shoreditch was like a transitional object
for someone that wasn't transitioning, someone so stuck in their solitary life,
they need to hold on to something with a pulse to make them feel more alive. At a time when humans felt out of reach, Shoreditch made me feel more alive.
To be fair my growing attachment made me uneasy. I knew I was doing something unusual here but I had a compulsive interest in My Bird People that though weird seemed unstoppable. It made some humans quite noticeably uncomfortable. It made them want to change the subject or make a joke about how peculiar I was. Both of those things made me feel like there was something wrong with me, but a voice in my head said, “there is something wrong with them.”
To be fair my growing attachment made me uneasy. I knew I was doing something unusual here but I had a compulsive interest in My Bird People that though weird seemed unstoppable. It made some humans quite noticeably uncomfortable. It made them want to change the subject or make a joke about how peculiar I was. Both of those things made me feel like there was something wrong with me, but a voice in my head said, “there is something wrong with them.”
A few humans understood my love and growing
attachment to Shoreditch, George and Gladys.
Swapping shifts was perfectly timed and methodical twice a day. Protect the new life at all costs was the protocol.
I made the irretrievable mistake of giving them
a small amount of accessible food daily. Pigeons have a self-regulating
mechanism that prevents them from turning into ostriches. They will never stop eating if
there is food available all the time. This is not dramatic or an
over-statement. It’s pure fact. Perhaps that’s why they shit so much, they have
no attachment to food, they just know food. And part of their knowing food is
knowing it must go in one end and it just comes out the other end.
For the Buddhist sangha in my readership, may I
remind you: Form is only emptiness, emptiness only form.
Because I loved them, I fed them too much. Us
humans can be like that sometimes. We have strange ways of providing affection
and trying to keep others close.
In my early thirties my brother gave me a
“grow your own boyfriend” kit. It was probably around the time people started wondering
if I was gay or if I would ever settled down, get married and have
children. So far I am none of those things. Sometimes I think it is okay or even good. Sometimes I feel like I've missed the golden ticket and done life all wrong.
The kit consisted of a small
rubbery man you put in a bucket of water. Overnight he grew into a bigger rubbery man.
Nice idea but I couldn’t feed him or talk to him without feeling like a complete nutter, unlike with the pigeons. I grew bored with that kind of relationship
quickly. I like the nuances of interdependence and insight.
Find out more about who I am and what I do: thinkingroom.org
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