Minnesota Spring

It’s the first day of spring.

In St. Paul, Minnesota, the wind chill is -12 degrees.  I’m working at my desk in fingerless wool gloves, looking tragically like Bob Cratchit.  The yard’s snow-filled birdbath and pot of greenery looked spirited in December.  Not now.

But once upon a time when we lived in North Carolina, it was the site of a spring miracle.

The kind that takes your breath away.

The kind that you feel honored to have seen.

The kind you could have missed completely.

And having seen it, I remember it on days when life feels flat, ordinary, hopelessly stuck in ice.

When we lived in North Carolina, spring swallowed our lot in an annual spree of blooms.  We had azaleas six-feet high in gorgeous white and lavender.  Blossoming pink dogwood trees surrounded our house.  Purple and yellow tulips dotted our gardens.

We looked like an entry in the Rose Bowl Parade.

One afternoon Maggie and I were backing down the driveway when something remarkably blue caught my eye.  It was a blue so intensely out of place that I stopped the car.

Bluebirds circled our birdbath.

We gasped at their iridescent feathers shimmering in the sunshine as they surveyed the housing options in our yard.

I had never been that close to a bluebird, and now I was four feet away.  They looked at me.  I looked at them.  We hoped together.

Eventually a pair took residence across the street in a lovely birdhouse built by our neighbor.  We became their cafe when I learned they prefer meal worms.

Over time, I was trained to deliver meals at 8 am and 4 pm.  The male sat patiently on the chair outside the window where I wrote. He chirped, waiting for me to bring the food NOW.  When I emerged from the back door, he flew onto a branch and waited until I left so he could shop in peace.

Maggie loved spotting him and calling out, “Mama, your blue baby needs you!”

They returned for two more springs.

One day I discovered my friend Robin loved bluebirds, too.  While I had played the obedient servant to mine, she took charge of hers, calling them to dinner by whistling.

It was like watching a Disney movie when she showed me the routine.

Because Robin is a patient, devoted soul, they let her hold their nesting babies.

It is a fine thing to be trusted by bluebirds.

None have settled with us in St. Paul, but I believe the miracle of those beautiful creatures lingers around our birdbath even now.

Despite the snow and wind, I feel their shimmering blue hope every spring.