There is a female mallard that has been gracing my patio for a few weeks now. I’ve affectionately named her Pam, after the female lead in Migration. She came with her beau last year, as we must have been a stop on their migration. 

This year they came back, and she’s more beautiful than ever.

I watch for her, and when she’s here, I watch her vacuum bird seed through her beak methodically, chomp at the water and groom herself. 

Her neck is surprisingly flexible, as she swerves it clockwise and counterclockwise to clean herself. 

She is very prim and proper, indeed.

I’ve started looking forward to her visits. And I think that she looks forward to visit as well.

Just the other day she came later than usual, and her energy was that of exhaustion. She’d clearly had a trying day. So much so that she waddled especially close to the window screen as if to ask, “Where’s the food? Are you coming?” as her beak lightly touched the screen, giving it the top-to-bottom once over.

She used to be timid and only come with her beau. Now she comes multiple times during the day, usually alone in the afternoon. She’ll eat, drink, groom and take a beat. She knows I’m watching her, and is getting more and more comfortable by the day. 

Earlier this week, she sat with her back to me, looking out into the world. The energy of wholeness and pure contentment emanating from her. She’d occasionally look back; her honied eyes curious and deeply ponderous. I – perched on the other side of the sliding door, sitting cross legged – smile warmly. Letting her know, she’s welcome and that I bask in the honor she’s bestowed on my humble patio. 

Her eyes are especially deep and inquisitive. I wonder what they see when she looks at me. What makes her trust me so?

Last night, she sleepily closed her eyes and let herself drift off a little bit. Totally aware of my presence the whole time.

She’s even started softly cooing before I give her food; it’s the most gentle, melodious and earnest beckoning I’ve heard. 

She is so beautiful. And not just her cascading feathers (especially the plum colored one), but her energy. She is calm (unlike her aggressive beau) and has a maternal, feminine energy. I feel her trust growing in me by the day.

As I sit and watch her, I can’t help but feel that I’ve grown used to her company. These moments of quiet connection between us are meaningful and heartfelt.

But there will come a day when she’ll stop coming. A day when she’ll continue her journey up north.

Reminds me of The Little Prince, which I just recently read. 

Knowing that all of life’s experiences are ephemeral is what makes each encounter so meaningful. Who knows when the next opportunity will be. Or if it will be. 

Everything has a season and the best we can do is align ourselves to it; enjoy each season without grieving its passage.  

This takes me to a topic I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, which is the impermanence of life. Mostly because life is asking me to elevate and leave behind that which no longer serves me, which can be painful to do.

But is there such a thing as loss, though? Or is it more a reframing; a commitment to allowing life to unfold in way that blossoms the greatest, highest good for you?

Maybe attaching ourselves to anything is the problem. And to be a fully realized person, one must hollow out the spirit and swap rigidity with elasticity. Allow for capacity so that our vessel may hold a vast array of experiences that we’re meant to have while we have the chance. 

Some of which may be deleriously joyful, while others might be torturously painful.

Yet, still keep going because it’s the accumulation of these experiences that gives our experience meaning.

Realize that loss may hurt, but love anyway.

Know that pain can cause tears, but so can joy.

I gazed out the window today. I didn’t see Pam today and I wasn’t sad about it.

Who knows if she’ll be back tomorrow. Either way, it won’t make my love for her any less meaningful, or the time we spent any less special.

“‘When you look up at the sky at night, since I’ll be living on one of them, since I’ll be laughing on one of them, for you it’ll be as if all the stars are laughing. You’ll have stars that can laugh!’

And he laughed again.

‘And when you’re consoled (everyone eventually is consoled), you’ll be glad you’ve known me. You’ll always be my friend. You’ll feel like laughing with me. And you’ll open your window sometimes just for the fun of it…And your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you’re looking up at the sky. Then you’ll tell them, ‘Yes, it’s the stars; they always make me laugh!’…’And it’ll be as if I had given you, instead of stars, a lot of tiny bells that know how to laugh…’”