Sometimes life gives you. . . starlings

european starling © Robinsegg, UT, Salt Lake City, 2008

As a general rule, I do not love invasive species of animals and plants. The European starling was first introduced in North America by Eugene Schieffelin, who aspired to bring the bird species mentioned in William Shakespeare's literary works to the U.S. Environmentalists will sometimes tell some version of this story with such sneering disdain in their voices that I half expect them to punctuate their remarks by spitting on the ground. And I don't disagree with the sentiment; starlings cause stress to native songbird populations with their heavy competition for habitat and resources. They compete with cavity nesting birds such as bluebirds and woodpeckers for naturally occurring cavities in old trees. In addition, they cause crop damage, sanitation problems, and carry diseases. But my intention here is not to go into detail about the environmental impact of starlings. Like it or not, European starlings are thriving in most parts of the U.S., and are a part of our everyday landscape.

Because they form such large, gregarious flocks, starlings can be disruptive and messy. One day this winter, I found our birdbath empty except for a thin layer of sludgy, claw-marked ice in the bottom. I'm pretty sure from watching the unsavory bacchanals in our birdbath over the summer that this was the work of starlings. I admit that it was fun to watch the flock descend, and to see about twenty at a time try to cram themselves into the bath, flinging water everywhere. In our area, robins also flock during the winter, and I've seen the starlings duke it out with them over the bath -- once I saw a robin land belly up on the ground after one of these tussles. My husband, Jeff, has dubbed their bickering "Starling Wars."

On Tuesdays, Jeff and I like to go on an "adventure," which often involves some kind of outdoor activity. Our definition of "adventure" is pretty loose. A couple weeks ago, we had one we're calling "Toilet Tuesday." I'm not going to say much more about this: only that we live in an old-ish house, and there are more "Toilet Tuesdays" in our future. We still managed to fit in a trip to Quiet Waters, a local park, which is closed to cars on Tuesdays. It was very cold last week, so there wasn't a lot of foot or bike traffic, and we had some really lovely birding: lots of flickers and other woodpeckers, a field sparrow sighting, and some great bluebird action. A trip to Quiet Waters almost always guarantees bluebirds, which were not common when I was getting my first birding experience as a little girl, so they are still a thrill to me. Jeff kept his eye on the various woodpeckers across the road as I enjoyed the "thwack" of bluebirds hitting the frozen ground.

I associate these diminutive birds with a kind of dreamy pleasantness; "life is sweet, tender, and complete, when you find the bluebird of happiness,"* so I was surprised by the ungainly thwacking. It clearly looked like hunting behavior; one would perch on a sunny branch, hurl itself abruptly into the grass, root around, then return to its branch. I'm surprised there was any prey stirring in the soil on such a cold day.

This past Tuesday I had just finished working on a project that I had put a lot of time and effort into, but was not comfortable with the results. Unlike most projects, this one was unfixable, and I was struggling to let go, to stop obsessing about it. The day started with a mass of starlings, with a few grackles mixed in, foraging in our yard and visiting the birdbath. As I said, starlings are not considered desirable, but I still find it entertaining to watch them. They can be very handsome birds; in the summer they are iridescent, their black feathers flashing with sheens of purple and green. They have a clean, yellow dagger of a beak, which turns dark in the fall. Their cold weather plumage is not as shiny and colorful, but it is patterned with a dense constellation of speckles.

I tend to associate black birds (starlings associate with, but are not true "blackbirds") with their ominous portrayals in works such as Hitchcock's The Birds, and Poe's "The Raven." The gathering of starlings in our brittle brown grass made for a bleak winter scene. At the same time, there's something a little comical about these sturdy birds' waddling gait, and the sound and sight of them all taking off at once, spooked by threats unobserved by me, is a stirring spectacle. This eerily beautiful ability to move as one has earned the winging starling flock the onomatopoetic name of "murmuration," and has made them the subject of art and viral videos. I noticed as I watched our flock that one had a pure white patch on one wing. I was also treated to a flash of scarlet and yellow when a redwing blackbird took flight in their midst. In the end, I had to tear myself away to get ready to start the day.

murmuration of gretna green starlings by jchip84

Jeff and I went to Quiet Waters again that Tuesday, but saw no bluebirds, and nothing else particularly out of the ordinary. We did, however, find some strange twirly playground equipment that brought fits of laughter that lasted well into the evening, thanks to videos Jeff and I took of each other going for a spin.

I have unlikely little turning points in my life. A couple of autumns ago, I got badly bitten by chiggers as a result of one of my attempts to get some spirit-lifting outdoor time. My hair stands on end just thinking about it. But, by the time I got home that day, scrubbed myself down, and made my way downtown with Jeff for a falafel, I could sense that my mood had shifted. The following Tuesday found us at the beach, so I could soak my fiery blisters in the cool salt balm of the ocean. My improved frame of mind would continue for many weeks, as would, ironically, the itching. My brain gets stuck sometimes, bogged down by fears and doubts, and it takes a little mental earthquake to get things moving again. I never know what will trigger the earthquake.

Since last Tuesday, with its literal turning point on the playground, and its assortment of mundane birds, I've come to see the flock of starlings as a harbinger of lighter times to come. I've since had a cluster of unexpected and satisfying things happen, even in my dreams: small windfalls and triumphs, symbols of growth and abundance. The memory of the starlings lingers, urging me to look at the world and at myself with curiosity rather than judgement; to see comedy within the nuisance; to glimpse the little starry universes contained in dark, dull feathers. Common and silly as a starling, I waddle forward.

*from the song "Bluebird of Happiness" by Sandor Harmati and Edward Heyman