Rick and Uncle Oscar went away on a trip and I woke up alone on a very cold Saturday morning, so I decided to build a fire.
I had no idea that it would end in a moral dilemma and a nightmare.
Before moving to Martinborough, I had never relied on fire to heat my home. Growing up in suburban Detroit, our fireplace was for decoration. Heat came at the touch of a button.
Now heating our home involves touching trees – chopping, stacking, piling and lighting.
To build a fire
I learned how to build a fire when I was in Indian Guides with my father at the YMCA. We wore feathered headdresses and instead of merit badges we earned feathers. My dad was chief. My name was Little Squirrel. They changed the program now, out of respect for American Indians. It’s still a father-son thing, but they call it Adventure Guides. (When you think about it, a bunch of white guys dressing up like American Indians is a bit bizarre.)
We were camping somewhere in Minnesota with our ‘tribe’ when my dad taught me how to build a fire. We weren’t supposed to use newspaper to earn the ‘Campfire’ feather, but he let me.
“The newspaper catches the kindling,” he said. “And the kindling catches the logs.” He slapped me on the back. “You cannot take a match to a log and expect it to burn. You have to go in little steps.”
There’s a life lesson in there, somewhere.
Lighting the fire
So on this morning, home alone, I built a fire the way my father taught me. I lit a match and touched it to the newspaper, shut the fireplace door and turned away.
The noise I heard coming from inside the chimney flu was almost immediate. A quick and panicked scratching. There was something in there. And it was alive.
I wondered how I could put the fire out, but the newspaper was burning fast, already catching the kindling. It must have been the fastest burning fire I’ve ever built. I suppose my father taught me well.
Then suddenly, there it was. A starling had popped down from the chimney into the firebox, and it was pecking against the glass. It was jumping and twisting, trying to get out, trying to avoid the quickly growing flames.
Instinctively, I reached for the door handle. I had to let it out.
But then I saw that its wing was already on fire. I thought of a burning bird inside the house, catching the drapes and rugs on fire.
Should I let it out? What would happen if I did?
My first woodburner
The first woodburner I ever knew was the one in the basement of the Zen Buddhist Temple I attended for years in Chicago. It was just off the main dining and kitchen area.
During the winter, when the large meditation hall upstairs was too cold for Wednesday night meditation, we’d sit on mats and cushions downstairs around that woodburner. The only light was the glow from candles nearby, and from the fire. Outside, the city was dark and covered in snow. Inside, we were warm and quiet and cozy.
In fact it was so cozy down there, and I was such a bad student, that I often felt my head bobbing with sleep, when I should have been counting my breath, being mindful.
We never once found a bird in the fire there, thank God – or Buddha, or whoever is or is not looking down.
Through the glass
Because the starling was already on fire, I pulled my hand away from the door. I watched.
Our woodburner here at home
A friend later told me that she couldn’t have looked on as it happened. Yet somehow, as horrified as I was, I never even thought of turning away. It was like I was there, with the bird. To close my eyes would have been abandonment.
I had my hand over my mouth. My heart was beating fast.
The bird flinched and jumped, clearly in pain. Smoke filled the firebox, and the bird’s beak started opening and closing slowly, trying to pull in air. I have never before seen a bird gasp for breath. As it did, it fell slowly backwards, until it stopped moving.
There are stories of ancient monks meditating in front of decomposing human corpses. It sounds gruesome, and it is. It was supposed to focus the monk on the temporary nature of our lives, of all life.
I have seen meditation beads made of human bone that serve the same purpose. I have held them in my hand.
Watching the starling die was a little bit like that for me.
The body
When the bird was entirely charred, I opened the door and looked at it. Its legs had burnt up to stumps. The feet were gone. I touched its beak with the wrought iron fire poker, and the entire beak disintegrated into ash.
Then I pushed the small, black body into the glowing red embers of the fire. I placed some kindling over it and said a small prayer. The bird’s hollow bones burned easily. Ten minutes later it was gone.
Where just minutes before I had seen a trapped starling full of life and movement and desire to live, now there was no trace of the bird at all. Nothing. Only grey and smoking ash.
What would you have done? Would you have opened the door?
____________________
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I enjoy reading your blog regularly. I have to say this is one of the more captivating entries I have read on any blog. The temporary nature of all life — indeed.
What would I have done? Well, I don’t particularly like starlings but I would like to think I would have opened the door and perhaps found something as quick as possible to wrap around the bird. That is a tough one though. I mean, I am sitting here at a computer screen imagining this so it is easy to say that I would open the door.
Thank you for a very thought provoking article.
That’s an incredibly nice comment. It’s really great to hear you’re enjoying my blog. Thanks heaps.
I read this post earlier today and have been haunted by it ever since. Harrowing and horrific, but beautifully told. Your empathy for the poor doomed bird is palpable. Thank God its suffering only lasted a short while.
Oh my goodness. What a horrible thing to experience. It’s very hard to say what I would have done. My first thought, when you mentioned something was alive, was to run for a bucket of water, open the door and quench the flames. But would I have been quick enough?
I think you were very brave to watch and try to convey your feelings of empathy and compassion in an impossible situation. I was deeply touched and saddened whilst reading and still feel quite haunted.
Thankfully, the bird’s spirit is now at peace and it sounds like you really couldn’t have done anything else. My heart goes out to you.
A morale dilemma indeed but I think you actually did the kindest thing with great respect and dignity for the life lost.
I would have opened the door. And it would have been the wrong thing to do. Either way it was going to suffer, the poor thing … but what you did allowed the suffering to be over a lot quicker, than if it had come out of the fire in pain, and probably you would have had to kill it anyway.
A horrible decision to have to make, but the right one.
I think you did the right thing, it would have been disastrous if you’d opened the door! Most animals/ birds go into shock quite quickly, so he wouldn’t have felt the pain for as long as humans would have.
Besides, minors are buggers for getting into all sorts of places they’re not wanted when they’re in a nest building frenzy. They’re constantly getting into our water collecting tanks, it doesn’t seem to matter what we put in there to stop them.
I think you did the best thing you could under the circumstances. Even if you did manage to douse the fire from its wings, that poor bird might not have been able to fly after that. Just this past weekend, I was in the golf course when I saw a bird with broken wings, gamely trying to hop around the grass patch. I threw it a bit of bread but another bird quickly and ferociously beat the injured bird to it.
Sometimes compassion is a difficult thing. You had compassion for the bird and did not want it to have pain, but you also had compassion for the bird and wanted its suffering to end quickly. For what it’s worth, the bird probably died long before the fire caused it much pain – smoke causes brain death much faster than flame can eat at skin and feather.
It happens. My mother managed to set fire to three squirrels, which she burned into very small crispy critters. She, unfortunately, is not a compassionate person – she thought it was funny. :(
I once watched a car crash.
Even though there was nothing I could do to stop it, it’s like 5 seconds suddenly becomes played out in extreme slow motion.
Life’s a funny old thing.
I probably would have let it out in sheer panic. Fuck the drapes… And may I just say, that is SO stereotypically gay it’s not funny… well, actually, it is funny, but I digress.
I probably would have let it out, but probably would have killed it in the panic of trying to save it.
Let’s face it, the bird would have panicked, flown around into walls, probably knocked itself unconscious and/or dead PLUS have severe burns and would probably have died anyway causing you much more stress in the process…
Shit happens.
But here’s an idea… Next time throw a chicken wrapped in tin-foil in there. Mmm, sunday roast.
:)
I think my initial impulse would have been to open the door.
I think that, like you, I would have considered the implications and realized that, although I may (or may not) have saved the bird I may (or may not) have put myself in danger, which would have created a new set of circumstances.
No sentient creature wants to suffer — yet they/we all do. The bird suffered and died as a result of a fire being lit, and while you can imagine all kinds of alternate realities the one you experienced is the one that’s now part of your memories.
The bird is gone. Let your distress go with it. It was unintentional.
I guess none of us can predict how we will respond in situations like this. Your meditation practice probably helped you to act as you did.
Mugo
Such a difficult thing to experience..life is so temporary and I agree with the others…the bird suffered less because you didn’t open the door.
Life is a terrible miracle. Its transitory nature, when we stop to think about it, can leave us appalled and enthralled. In comparison to the cosmos, a life here on Earth is a brief bright spark in a greater flame.
Like others, I believe that you acted bravely and correctly. I feel your gave that bird the greatest respect when you refused to turn away from its suffering. And with a greater compassion when you released its spirit with prayer.
The accident, I think was unavoidable. The bird unwarily chose the chimney as its nest. And you were not aware of the creature’s presence until it made itself known. Had you chosen to open the grate, the bird would not have let you help–it’s wildness and pain would have prevented that. Had you opened the grate, the event may have caused greater harm to you your friends, family and other creatures who call you house, “home”.
As a Buddhist, or perhaps former Buddhist, you may take comfort that the starling had a purpose and that purpose is served here in these pages. It has given you a story, and to us, a lesson.
Of course, if I were there in person, I wouldn’t actually say this aloud, even though I believe every word of it. Perhaps that is because I so strongly believe in it.
Instead, I would swallow a tear, smile bravely and give you what I hope is a comforting grip of the shoulder. Aren’t people funny?