June 2004

June 2004

In this month of new birth and transition, the line between success and sorrow is thin. This truth is no more clearly spoken than through watching the next generation make its way into the world.

Last evening, my parental heartstrings tugged with pride as I watched two crows tell me in no uncertain terms that I was too close to their child. The object of their protection sat still and clueless on the sidewalk leading to my neighborhood grocery. It looked toward me as I approached, comically half-dressed in new flight feathers but with a chest still covered in gray down. Not wanting to discover what the beak of an angry crow felt like, I veered to the road and gave the youngster a wide berth. Pondering where the nest could be in this urban setting, I continued on my way. Milk and yoghurt purchased, I returned to where the crows had been. The first sign of tragedy was the silence that greeted me, followed by the view of two crows looking down into the road from the streetlight above. The black mass in the road below them, which I desperately tried to turn into a lost article of clothing, was indeed the hapless fledgling--the one I had smiled at just minutes before. Always the scientist, I repeated my veer into the road, but this time with the intent of getting closer to the now lifeless form. The silent adults, still ready to protect their child, erupted in calls of protests and swooped down to drive me away. Marveling at their dedication I moved on--wondering what death means to a crow. Wondering, as night fell, how long they would stand vigilant over their progeny.

The line between success and sorrow is thin. In this time of new birth and transition, the small sorrows we witness reinforce the miracle of life, the gift of each day, and the pleasure of being aware. May we feel joy from the smiles of our students, pleasure in their accomplishments, solace when things go wrong, and gain strength in the knowledge that the successes so outnumber the sorrows.