The dark waters of Aquatic Park are lit along the west shore by a stream of headlights from Interstate 80, which runs the curve of the San Francisco Bay. Giant shadows of Monterey cypress, planted as a barrier between the freeway and the lake, ripple in the glowing expanse.

Fed by creeks descending from the hills and by a breakwater system channeling Bay water under the freeway, this man-made lake provides a patch of the wild for waterfowl: coot, scaup, mallard, bufflehead and egret. Facing a lagoon at the south end of the park is the International Bird Rescue Research Center. This organization, founded in 1971, revives and researches seabirds injured in oil spills. A simple wooden building, with its pools and pelican aviary, offers a temporary harbor for orphaned, injured and diseased aquatic birds.

Before dawn the waters of the lake are silent, but vibrant. Like shades of themselves, congregations of inky coot circle in the glittering waters. Sleeping scaup, heads nestled in their soft scapular feathers, white sides flashing, send out a radiance in the darkness.

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Several blocks northeast of Aquatic Park in the attic bedroom of our Victorian house, I ache through another sleepless night. I crave exit. Exit from body—tight spine, locked muscles. Exit from mind­­­—conjuring catastrophes. I sense the warmth of my husband Patrick’s sleeping form in the bed next to me, breathe in the odor of his sweat—garlic, curry, coffee, beer, cigars. As I struggle for sleep myself, my thoughts recoil and lash out, casting blame.

It is 5:00 a.m. In the dark I demand Patrick’s attention. I hiss: What are you going to do about this? Have you done that? Why haven’t you done this? After a series of half-asleep mumbles from Patrick, I turn against myself. Once again I have allowed myself to return to these unanswerable questions so upsetting to us both.

The alarm interrupts my litany of blame. I leap up to meet a friend for a morning walk at Aquatic Park. I return at 7:00 to get my eight-year-old Caitlin ready for an orchestra rehearsal and concert. As Patrick disappears into the shower, I rush around checking Caitlin’s recorder, arguing with her about what she is supposed to wear, packing her lunch, getting breakfast, dressing myself, gathering Patrick’s shirts for the laundry. It is approaching 8:00 a.m., the rehearsal time.

When I begin to usher Caitlin out the door, I see that she is wearing her rubber boots, muddy from the soccer field. I order her, “You can’t dress like that for a performance!” None of my ploys and arguments convince her. As tension mounts, she misses first a quarter, then a half, then most of her rehearsal (to say nothing of an appointment I miss). Stomping around the kitchen, I shout an obscenity. And she screams back. “They’re my feet! It’s my orchestra!”

Wheeling into the living room, I mutter, “I quit!” and begin to cry. I am appalled at myself for such a thought. I know my commitment to Caitlin is unshakable. I look back into the kitchen at her. She is crouching in the corner, her arms around her knees clasping her boots, her long, brown silk hair swept in front of her face. I want to go to her, to hold her and kiss her, but it is too soon, and she is sometimes wary of kisses.

Where did that outburst come from? I barely know how to examine it. I only know that this feeling extends beyond motherhood.

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To ensure survival in the water, the feathers of a seabird must be clean and in alignment. When aligned, the feathers overlap and interlock to create a tight waterproof barrier; water cannot seep through. Even in frigid waters, birds can remain completely warm. Birds align their feathers by preening. They distribute waxes which keep those feathers supple so alignment may be maintained.

When a bird encounters oil on the surface of the water, the oil sticks to the feathers causing them to mat and pull apart, impairing the waterproofing and exposing the animal’s sensitive skin to extremes in temperature. This can result in death. Because the oil destroys the alignment of their feathers, these birds can no longer survive in the water, their natural element. They are unable to live in their world.

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To meet the disorder of daily life with more stability, I know I need to return to training my mind. It has been nine years since I have done intensive Buddhist meditation, even though, during the twelve years before that, I had spent many months in silent vipassana practice. In Caitlin’s early years, I had sensed that she needed me there, and I hadn’t felt ready to be apart from her. Now that Caitlin is approaching nine, I tell myself she has grown up enough.

The day after our family Thanksgiving, I get a ride to the other side of the Bay, past the Chevron Oil Refinery, with its metal vats and stacks spewing livid plumes of smoke, to a retreat center in Marin County. In the protection of a 2500-year-old tradition, practices passed down through the centuries, wholesome meals, and the guidance of teachers I respect, I begin ten days of silence, of sitting and walking meditation.

The simple instructions are familiar to me from past years of retreats: to sit in stillness and follow the breath, to notice other sensations, emotions and thoughts. To see clearly, to see things as they are—the meaning of vipassana is my sole task. The last time I was on a ten-day retreat, I was a young 42, trying to get pregnant. Now a sense of urgency kindles my intention to practice. I am what feels to me an old 51—having given birth and grappled with the possibility of an early death through breast cancer.

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Oiled birds arrive at the rescue facility emaciated and cold, their feathers matted and separated, their immune systems compromised. The birds must recover stability before they can be washed. They need to regain strength in an environment which is warm, dark and quiet, a refuge offering them a sense of being hidden and safe. After they are stabilized, they are washed, rinsed and then released outdoors for five to ten days of rehabilitation in the protected pools.

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As the days pass, the meditation becomes more concentrated. I am struck by how I am controlling my breath, how I am increasing the intensity, then the speed. Next I find myself trying to slow it down. Here on the microscopic level, I see myself exiting from experience. What would it be like to experience the breath just as it is, to be stable with it when it flares in anger or catches in sadness?

It suddenly strikes me that in meditation we are trying to do a very radical thing with our awareness—to include everything but not to change any of it. If I am controlling my perception of the breath, I wonder to what degree I am controlling other things I perceive. How much do I distort everything that I encounter? I wonder how I distort Patrick and Caitlin, recreate each of them into something other than what they are. And myself? Am I as abrasive as I sometimes think I am? I am scraped raw with sadness.

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Washing a bird demands absolute attention. This work must be quiet and concentrated. For the bird, this is a terrifying, heart-stopping process. If held in a human hand for too long or in the wrong way, a wild bird’s systems could slowly shut down. The goal is to wash and rinse a bird as quickly as possible.

But the birds themselves must take the next crucial step in developing their capacity to survive in the water. The birds must preen their own feathers. The greatest stimulus for preening is being wet. So the birds are released into the pools, where they are stimulated to preen and to bring their feathers back into alignment.

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In meditation one morning, the awareness becomes like water. I notice the sensations one after another, changing rapidly. I notice my lips, warm, pressing each to each, and my inhalation at the nostrils. I notice an achiness in my ankle, and I begin to mark the inclination to turn my attention away from that ache, to move in close on the breath, to make the breath longer, more pronounced. Again I set my attention on stability. Can my attention be so unwavering that I can experience the achiness of that ankle without leaning into or away from that ache? Strengthening my concentration, I soften my receptivity at the same time. I allow myself a surprise. Aware of the in-breath, I am not even expecting the out-breath. What if I could meet Caitlin and Patrick in the way I just met the breath? I weep as I ask myself this.

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When the seabirds are strong enough, they are allowed outside into the caged pools. Hearing the natural sounds of the wind and the water, smelling the salt air is healing for them. After this sojourn in the pools, they are freed back into the wild. Whenever possible they are released into their home terrain. Some birds mate for life. In their original habitat, they know where to find food and a good spot to roost at night.

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During my first few days at home, I am resting in the deliciousness of my family. With Caitlin, I sense a shift. Drawing on the stability I trained by working with the breath, I allow her to be as she is in all of her exuberance. I imagine that she is grateful for my rootedness. In the late afternoon, I am stretched on the living room couch, having just finished reading to her. She is perched on the back of the couch. She leans over and crooks her head, looking into my face. In a sudden rush of sweetness, she begins to kiss me, first one cheek, then the other, then my eyelids, the tip of my nose, and the crown of my head.

I continue the practice of rising at 5:00 a.m. to meditate. After sitting, I pull on my rain pants and am out the door. Having seized this dark time for sitting and walking, I have saved both Patrick and myself from my early morning worrying. Standing on the landing, I appreciate my freedom.

A friend and I head down past the warehouses and factories, across the tracks of the Southern Pacific to Aquatic Park. The shallows are littered with trash, sullied plastic sacks, a ripped orange Doritos chips wrapper, a pack of Newports, a pair of torn boxer shorts. Rising out of the garbage on long delicate legs, a snowy egret stands absolutely still. Her yellow eyes are concentrated. Noticing our approach, she suddenly flaps and glides off in flight, her golden feet trailing in the viscous water. Steady, concentrated, alert in the chaos of the moment, she is quick to make the appropriate move.

As the dark winter months continue, I forget how much work it takes to sustain my steadiness. One morning the alarm bursts the plush darkness of sleep. The cold room is uninviting. I don’t muster the energy to get up to meditate. I pull the quilt up over my head. When I can’t get back to sleep, I resume my old habit: whispering my worries to Patrick.

That afternoon Caitlin, who is doing a school project on Ireland, calls out her frustrations over drawing a fairy. I get angry at her. As she sits on the couch crumpling up her pictures, I shower her with books of Irish lore and illustrations of leprechauns and fairies. “That’s not what they look like!” she glowers at me. “Have you ever seen a fairy? Well, I have!” Through dinner and up until bedtime, she continues to shout out her conundrum. “I can’t do it! But I have to do it!” My frustration escalates along with hers. Finally I burst out, “I can’t tolerate this!” I yank myself off the couch and clatter up the stairs to my bedroom. Pulling off my shoes, I hurl them so they bounce against the chest of drawers and ricochet around the room. I hear myself whisper: “I wasn’t meant for this world!”

The next day I am walking by the lake, learning the names of the birds from my friend Peter. He tells me that he read an article in The New York Times saying that the birds revived in rescue projects do not survive when they return to the world. Could this be possible? When I go to see the director of the seabird rescue project, he says that they don’t know the exact percentage of birds that survive. Sometimes they release as many as 100% of the birds. But survival depends on many factors including the toxicity of the oil and the rapidity with which the birds are collected. Despite the fact that there are no guarantees in this work, his commitment is passionate. “No matter what,” he insists, “our job is to take care of these animals and to protect them.”

The following morning, when the alarm clock rings, I wrench myself out of bed, cracking my head on the low ceiling. No matter how daunting it seems, I am determined to sit still and align my mind, to look at my own frustration, to soften my own rigidity. Fumbling for my pills, I knock over the water glass. Exasperated, I tiptoe down the carpeted stairs to my meditation cushion. I sit tall. I discipline my attention, and watch my thoughts fly around. I do not like what I see—anger, shame, fear, grief—but I do not seek exit.

After dinner that night Caitlin is still wrestling over drawing a fairy. “Help! I can’t do it!” she insists. I can feel the anger beginning to surge inside me. I pause and commit myself to sit still and listen. I remember the resolute posture I taught myself on retreat. It is as if now, between us, Caitlin and I are one meditating person: she, offering the power of her feelings, and I, offering my stability. But as I go to bed, I feel bruised inside with exhaustion.

The next morning, after sitting, I am still drained. As I walk along the lake, I think how much work it can be just to live this life. I should have been a nun, I tell myself, or a solitary egret off in the rushes. As I round a bend, seven eager puffs of down swim toward me. Behind my cheeks, I feel a sad/sweet welling of tears. It’s a family of mallards, father in iridescent green and mother, lovely in soft browns, followed by fuzzy ducklings, each with a stripe at the forehead. This family of mallards finds its mirror inside of me, releases me back into the circlet of my family. I breathe in deeply and catch a sultry whiff of spring. It’s the honeyed scent of ceanothus, which I now notice is all over the park in a kindness of lavender bloom.

In the evening Patrick is working with Caitlin on her Ireland project. She has decided to make a picture of a stone wall in a green meadow. Caitlin makes some residual protests about the impossibility of the task. Then she agrees to take turns with Patrick drawing the stones. He draws a long stone, and then she draws a square one. The wall gradually builds; it is both irregular and solid, a true farmer’s wall.

It isn’t until the next day that Caitlin says to me, “I think I can draw a tiny face of a fairy peeking out over the wall.” When I come into the living room to look, she has drawn not one but two fairies, each giving out a golden glow, far above the stone wall, flying free. I am brimful with gladness.

I hadn’t considered until this moment how crucial it may have been for me to sustain my stability as Caitlin struggled over the fairy. I had set my intention to be as open as I could in my seeing. I saw Caitlin’s sense of truth, her passionate hope to create something, and her fear that she could not do it authentically; I saw that the conflict felt unresolvable to her. I also saw my own anger and then how tired I was. From as clear and open seeing as I could muster came a softening of that anger. I could appreciate her pain. And mine. So I did not allow myself to act on my anger or my exhaustion. In providing stability for her, I helped her find her own stability. Out flew the fairies!

Before I meditate the next morning, I do a few yoga twists. An image slips out of my dreams, takes me by surprise. I am the mother mallard gliding through the dark waters. My feathers are aligned, allowing me protection and warmth. As I rest in these waters, I am finding my steadiness. I am counting on my stability because I have my own fledglings to tend. Stretching my neck in a gentle twist, I nestle my tired cheek in the downy softness of my feathered back.

∞

For more information about the International Bird Rescue Research Center, please visit www.bird-rescue.org. Thanks to Jay Holcomb (Director) and Deirdre Goodfriend (Rehabilitation Manager) for talking to me about their inspiring work.

And thanks to Patrick and Caitlin, Ronna and Peter, and Patrick M. for getting up early to meet the birds with me.

∞

From the Spring 1998 issue of Inquiring Mind (Vol. 14, No. 2)

Text © Barbara Gates 1998–2020