Being The Universe

“Kip, the bird feeders are empty,” I scolded.

Kip, my best friend,  pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I guess I forgot,” he yawned. He was perched in his pj’s and fleece jacket on a small wooden kitchen chair pulled close to the woodstove because it was warmest there, and the dogs had all the couch space. It is our routine to fill the birdfeeders in the evening, just after feeding the dogs, and last night, it was Kip’s turn.

“You can’t forget the birds,’ I nagged. “We are their Universe, and if we forget them, The Universe will forget us,” I added without any love or light in my voice.

Birds are kind of a big deal to me. They are my constant companions. Blue jays peck at the windowsills, crows noisily raise their kids in the pine trees behind the house, and thunderbirds show up in my dreams. None of them have any respect for peace and quiet, but all contribute to my peace of mind.

“Yep, I’ll fill them soon,” Kip assured me as he took a sip of coffee.

Kip is used to my shortness in the morning. I’m not one of those people who wakes up irritatingly chipper. He is also incredibly accepting of my beliefs, considering that he is an atheist who doesn’t believe in a higher power. But I do.

I apologized after my third cup of coffee for being short. “I just see the birds as us,” I explained. “Sometimes the feeders are empty, but they always trust that more is coming, and if we aren’t able to be trustworthy, how can we ever expect good things to come from our Universe when we need them?”  He looked at me carefully and nodded respectfully, which is all I was hoping for.

Kip and I share a big ol’ farmhouse that we like to call “airy” instead of drafty. A large deck stretches across the back and overlooks a field and forest where bears roam, and deer raise quiet fawns. On our deck, we have three bird feeders. In winter, our resident neighbors include chickadees, downy woodpeckers, and a hoard of blue jays. When spring arrives, they are joined by nuthatches, sweet singing mourning doves, hummingbirds, and loud-mouthed red-winged blackbirds. My meditation room, decorated with candles, crystals, feathers, and a washer/dryer, looks out over the deck, and sometimes I blow an entire morning with a pot of coffee, watching the antics of the birds.

One dark snowy morning, as I lit the candles and prepared to settle down with a steaming cup, I noticed that the feeders were empty, and it had been my turn to fill them. Kip noticed it too.

“Christine, The Universe… remember?” he yelled from the coffee pot.

“Yep, I’m on it,” I stuttered as I rushed to the bag for a scoop of sunflower seed. I glanced at Kip as I opened the door to the deck and noticed that he wasn’t laughing at me at all. Maybe being The Universe to the birds had become important to him too. Maybe he was starting to believe. Or maybe, he just believes in what is important to me.