Cardinals and Blue Jays: A Promise of a New Day

I hope blue[jays] dance in your soul.
- Al Batt

When I was younger, I had a habit of falling into watering holes—creeks, lakes, streams, and the like. It happened most often at my Nanny and Popey’s house where a creek teased me from the backyard. This particular creek was a bit wider than a sidewalk and held crawfish and minnies and a promise of adventure. I realize, those of you reading, might be shaking your head: a little wider than a sidewalk?!? And you still fell in? Well, never one to back down from something or someone, my brother, DT, would constantly egg me on to jump it. Of course, he did this from the other side where he had already neatly and safely landed. I tried many a ways to jump across it, but it seems I was never cut out to be a jumper (as also noted by my lack of a vertical jump for swimming in college ... just not a jumper). I always jumped, yet also managed to slip, trip, and/or fall into the water. I’d slink on back to my grandparents’ house through the basement where I knew my Nanny left towels.

My grandparents were avid bird watchers and living in rural Ohio provided the perfect backdrop for this hobby. They had bird whistles, birdbaths, bird feeders, bird books, bird nick-knacks, bird clocks, and various other bird related items around their house. There were times when my brothers and I didn’t venture down to the creek and instead sat in front of the giant bay window and watched the birds with my grandparents. Sometimes one of us were told to take the bags of crust and scatter it on the ground beneath the bay window. The birds would swoop on in and talk back and forth as they snatched the crumbs. We learned a lot about the nature of birds and each other as we’d sit and bird watch. My grandparents had two favorite birds: the cardinal and the blue jay. These two types of birds are not actually that easy to see, or at least, that has been my experience outside of rural Ohio. Over the years since my grandparents passing, I have not seen these birds very often, though the blue jay is more elusive, and I always look.  And so ingrained in fond and happy memories of a time long past, these birds have become a symbol for my brothers and me: a symbol of hope that somehow, no matter the circumstances things are going to be ok.

This past year I have seen the blue jay several times: always flying high, only stopping for a moment for me to a catch a glimpse.

This might be a slight indication of my past year, my first as a post-grad student. What does one expect in their first year as a full-fledged faculty member, shiny new Ph.D. in hand? I don’t know what I expected, but I never expected it to be so, well, so hard. I never thought I’d count out pennies for groceries or have experiences with students that didn’t go so *well. I never thought it’d be hard to make new friends or find a good work out place. I never thought I’d find a church that didn’t have my best intentions at heart or struggle to lose the dissertation 20. I never thought it’d be hard to adjust to the running in the altitude or have constant nosebleeds from the adjustment. I never thought the Steelers would lose to the Broncos or that Peyton Manning would get traded to the Broncos. I never thought a student would email to complain about an A-…

I’m not one to run away from something just because it’s hard, and in fact, I tend to dig in deeper, but it’s not unrealistic or un-humanlike (or heaven forbid weak) to admit when it’s been a hard year. We all have hard years—I’ve had harder years than even this one—yet, it’s what we do with the hard year once we realize the fact that makes the difference in how the following year will turn out. Not because the following year is guaranteed to be a “better” year, but because of how we adjust our thinking and our reactions based on that previous experience.

By the time I saw a blue jay for the third time, I knew everything—somehow and someway—was going to be ok.  

This has been the year of jumping in because someone (namely myself) dared me to. But it’s also been the year of learning when not to jump (who knew there’d be that day!), learning when to rely on others, if only to talk it out, and learning more about myself along the way. A seemingly productive learning year: let’s call it that and not let the hardness of it blind me to the learning.   

And so, sometimes when darkness hovers above ready to slip her arms around me and the ground is slightly damp, I’m no longer a 30something, but my 10 year old self giggling at my brothers across the creek, daring them to not believe I could make it. I still smell the rustiness of the creek, still see the lighting bugs start to dance, still hear the aria of the spring peeps, still hear my Popey, as he shakes his head and says, “ooooh, Sissy,” and still believe that cardinals and blue jays offer the hope of a new day.