A few days ago, raking leaves in the back garden, a lovely American robin flew onto a tree near me. I spoke to it, “Hi, Pretty!” Not in my normal voice but a less threatening higher pitch, sweet and soft as I can sound voice. It fluttered in closer, landing on a fence post. What if I could develop a relationship with this wild bird? Like Snow White had with the birds in her story. Remember she was so sweet and innocent the birds had no fear and followed her like adoring friends? I’d long commiserated with birds that scattered at my slightest movement, because of the cruelty I had inflicted on them in my youth. Yes! Get away fast! I assumed they knew my past. Shameful. But could I make amends in my old age? By being like Snow White. Perhaps robins have the capacity to forgive.
I spoke more sweetness to the robin, then got back to raking and she hung around after I went in at dusk.
The next day she appeared again with a couple of friends, flitting in the branches. “Hi, Pretty!” I said, and she hopped to the ground toward me, but not too close.
This morning, from my office, I hear a thump on a glass door coming from the sunroom. I check it out and there’s a round of robins bobbing on the patio. I slide the door open and they yeep, scutter, disperse like sparks, up into solo flights, forming singular patterns, flying to and fro between the loblolly pine, white oak, water maple and other trees in the woods beyond the fence. Several perch on the holly hedge overlooking the garden watching. A few crisscross overhead, low, one very low I literally feel its feathers graze my bare head, as it glides to rest on a landing six feet away from my touch. I laugh out loud. Never experienced anything like this. Did speaking sweetly transform my aura into something that attracts wild birds? Legends and omens about the significance of seeing robins originate across many cultures from the Celts to Native Americans. Is it a sign? Is death imminent?
Have you heard any robin stories? What, if anything, does this mean?
