A Tale of Avian Revelation, Fortitude, and Perseverance

I am a scientist trained to base decisions on concrete evidence and facts. 

And yet I still believe in some things that can’t be materially confirmed: feelings, positive energy, deep internal connections to other living things, love—and talismans. 

Wikipedia says “A talisman is any object ascribed with…powers intended to protect, heal, or harm individuals for whom they are made.” This is how I see corvids, a family of social birds that includes crows and ravens. 

Corvids have portended two of the most significant events of my life. 

The first involved my black belt test in 1986. I was never an athlete. Mathlete, yes; athlete, no. Nevertheless, I set a personal goal of becoming a black belt in one of the hardest karate styles around. I trained constantly for a full year in preparation for the grueling, extremely physically demanding 4+ hour test. As I headed to the gym, I was the most nervous I’ve ever been. Just before I stepped inside I noticed four crows sitting on the ground. I stopped and pondered the birds for a moment. Just then, a fifth crow descended into their midst. I understood on the spot that I would have to fight four black belts in my test but would ultimately be accepted into their group. I immediately relaxed. I would be fine—and I was. My vision turned out to be exactly what happened.

The second very significant incident involved my mother. She was healthy and thriving in assisted living in 2004. One afternoon, while at work, her doctor called to say they had taken her to the hospital. I left work and headed for Lahey. On the way, while stopped at a traffic light, I saw three crows together on the wires. One was clearly older than the other two. As soon as I spotted them, the elder flew away. A feeling came over me and I was resigned to the fact that my mother was leaving my wife, Jane, and me. When I got to her room, she was unconscious; she passed away within two hours. 

These incidents and more have caused me to embrace corvids as my primary talisman over the years. Watching over and protecting me in my home is the wing of a raven I discovered while on a scientific expedition in the deep of the Sonoran Desert in Bahía de Los Ángeles, Baja California, Mexico. I did not know until recently that blue jays are also corvids. That explains my childhood fascination with the occasional “exotic” blue jay that visited my tiny inner-city yard, where pigeons and sparrows were the norm. 

Cardinals, though, also hold a special significance.

Jane and I were looking to purchase our first home in Lynn back in 1976. As we arrived for a visit at one of the homes we were considering, we saw the unmistakable bright red of a male cardinal sitting on the roof. We both independently took that as a very positive sign and bought the house. 

Nearly two decades later, in 1994, when we first toured our present house in Burlington, the first thing we saw when we looked out the upstairs bedroom window was a beautiful pair of cardinals. We just looked at each other and said, “It’s a sign.” Logic and home inspection would have suggested we not buy the place, but we just knew we belonged here. We bought the house on the spot, and it was one of the best decisions we ever made.

We’ve had a pair of cardinals in this yard virtually every day for over 30 years, year-round, even in the coldest of winter. Sometimes a third cardinal shows up; rarely four; those are likely offspring.

I’m constantly amazed how the smallest birds—chickadees, sparrows, and even little wrens—can be out at my feeder in extremely cold weather. Tiny juncos show up in November, wintering here in Southern New England to escape even colder climes up north. 

One such winter day, when the temperature was sub-zero, our cardinal pair arrived at the platform feeder. 

The female must have developed frostbite. She was having difficulty standing, and one of her feet was clenched into a ball. She eventually dropped to the ground and sat in the snow. I watched in astonishment as the male tenderly delivered seed after seed to her to make sure she was fed. After a while they flew away. She could fly, she just couldn’t perch. The next morning they were back doing the same thing. 

On day three, she was standing on the platform feeder, one foot spread out and the other resting on her knuckles. She had adapted to her situation and was now able to feed herself. She continued this way for a few weeks, but…her frostbitten foot began to turn black. Not good, I thought. Over the next two or three weeks the entire leg turned black and began dangling, limp. She had mastered standing on one leg to feed, and so she was surviving. I can still picture her as she carried that black, lifeless, flopping leg for weeks. Then, one day when she arrived… THE LEG WAS GONE! It had rotted away and fallen off. “Nevertheless she persisted”! Miraculously, I watched that same pair of cardinals at my feeder for over two more years! Incredible!!! I still marvel at this whole episode…truly inspirational. 

Eventually, the female no longer appeared. The male came to the feeder by himself for months. After a full season of dining alone, the male started showing up with a new female companion. I was so happy to see that – he deserved it.

The relationship between these little creatures holds a lot of lessons for us:

Never give up.

Don’t doubt what your body’s healing power is capable of.

Take care of your loved ones in need, and accept help when you need it.

There is life after the loss of a loved one. It’s OK to move on.

In the coldest of winter nights, remember - there will be sunny spring days ahead.