Dear Hildegaard

newborns to the world

Dear Hildegaard,

No matter how often I go after your hair with the brush and detangler spray, you always wake up with a bird’s nest on the back of your head. In the mornings, you are a poof of blond hair and toddler babble about whatever you dreamt the night before. This morning, after rubbing your eyes and telling me your dreams, you sat up, yawned, then looked at me intently and declared: I want to hold a birdie. 

I told you it was a wonderful goal. I also told you that bird’s don’t like to be held by people all that much, and they have an advantage over us: they can fly away. But you weren’t deterred. Not in the least. I want to hold a birdie in mine hand, you insisted. Okay, baby, I relinquished, and we talked about what else we would do that day. 

This afternoon in the backyard, you found a small, soft feather in the dirt. At first, I gasped under my breath knowing that your beloved cat, Ron, leads a double-life. Yes, he is your best friend, but he is also a cold-blooded hunter, so I imagined there might be more than just soft feathers awaiting us. Thankfully, it was a solitary floof from a baby bird, and you cradled it in your hands, put it to your cheek, and seemed completely content; almost as if that were enough. As if you were holding the hatchling itself. 

I think about the difference between my thoughts when I first wake up (they are a flood) and what you think about: holding a bird, mac and cheese for lunch, building a block tower, and hugging daddy good morning. I wonder what changes us so dramatically over the years. Responsibility, of course. Suffering, obviously. But is it possible that it is also just plain, unromantic busyness that keeps us from caring about things like birds? It reminds me of that Bluey episode we love where Bandit, Bluey’s dad, pretends he was “born yesterday.” At the end of the episode, long after their game has ended, Bandit returns to the yard to stare at a leaf, like a newborn to the world.

A newborn to the world. That is what you are and what I want to be again. And maybe we can grasp some of it back, as adults. Maybe just a little. The feral cats are beginning to give birth in abandoned woodpiles and under people’s back decks. I slow down and watch them with you, to see if they will lead us to their hiding spots. This is our third spring here in South Dakota, and we know now that this is kitten season. I am also tipped off by our neighbor who, every early spring, begins wandering up and down the dirt alley behind our house, looking for where the feral cats she faithfully feeds (along with our Ronnie, who enjoys a second breakfast) have hidden their soft, blind babies. She worries about them, knowing that we still might get another frost or two before true spring begins. 

I am still somewhat a stranger to this place. Not because it isn’t California, where my roots grew deep for years, fed by the saltwater of Fort Bragg and the red dirt of Lake County, but because people here keep to themselves. They are kind, but they are also private. Relationships take time to build. Ultimately, you will find that people are the same everywhere. There are always those who think they are better than everyone else, but there are plenty more who live ordinary lives of stubborn faithfulness. They build staircases. They teach 8th grade Spanish. They only buy organic when it’s on sale. And they would buy your groceries for you if you forgot your purse at home.

Like a creaky old house settles into its foundation, I am learning to be at home here. But to you, it has always been home. You will know the chitter of the tree squirrel and the brush of the grasslands against your ankles the way I know saltwater and the best places to find red bellied newts. You will treasure seasons of snow and hot chocolate just as much as summertime light. 

When you were a newborn, your dad and I noticed how much you enjoyed the wind against your face. It made you smile and gasp. You are a true child of the prairie, Hildegaard, and you will lead me in the way. On one of our recent walks, we passed a young person who looked tired, sad, and self-conscious; the exact kind of person I try to comfort by not interacting with them. But not you. You yelled out “hi!” as we walked past, and they looked up, startled a bit, then softened. This happens everywhere we go. You speak and people soften. You wave, and people forget themselves. 

A newborn to the world. Not yet pained by every news headline, or suspicious of every passerby. You hold soft feathers in your hands and wave at people who have given up. Because of your tender, open presence, I am able to interact with people in this small, midwestern town, who I would have otherwise shuffled by.  You break all the ice. You’re like Scout Finch, accidentally breaking up a mob by asking a simple question. I don’t know when or if you will lose this quality you have of newborn curiosity and authentic joy, but I hope you don’t, ever. I hope you will always be willing to startle someone out of their comfort zone and bring them into the land of the living. 

Cover image by Josie Weiss