Blackbird singing in
the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Black bird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly, Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.
In 2010, my brother John was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. He was 57 years old. He had been “forgetting” things but not telling anyone.
Like the day he arrived late for work. He was never late for work. If anything, he was always early. Punctuality and dependability are standard expectations when you are raised with a strong work ethic. Loyalty is thrown in for extra measure.
When asked what happened, he made some excuse – there was a car accident and a back up of cars. He got stuck behind a school bus. He had a flat tire and had to stop to change it.
Something. Anything. So long as he didn’t have to tell the truth, which was that he had gotten lost. Which was because he suddenly didn’t know where he was going. Which was because he suddenly didn’t know where he was. Even though he had driven that same route from his home to his work for the past twenty years.
He never said a word about any of that, but he couldn’t deny or deflect the problem when he stood in front of the machinery he had been operating every day for the last twenty years and it was as if someone had brought in a brand new machine. He didn’t recognize it. Had no idea what to do with it. Just stood in front of it and scratched his head.
Finally, his supervisor said something. “John, I think you’d better see a doctor. Something is definitely going on with you and I don’t think it’s good.”
“Why don’t you take some time off and get to a doctor and get it checked out,” he offered. “Come into my office and we’ll fill out the papers so everything is covered.”
That was when the final shoe dropped. Turns out, not only did my brother forget how to read, he also forgot how to sign his name.
The doctor’s visit and diagnosis came not long after that which signaled the the long, slow decent into the outer edges of oblivion which lead to The Abyss, there to dangle in suspension for a cruel, indeterminate amount of time.
I couldn’t bear to see it. I’m not proud to say this, but I totally wimped out at the end. Indeed, I am ashamed of myself. I lost any sense of courage I had whenever I saw a picture or read a post about his status. I don’t know how his family – especially his wife – was able to find the strength to keep themselves together enough to care for him.
But, they did. And, actually, I do know how. It’s love. Love like that can move the mountains of obstacles and challenges that Alzheimer’s brings into your life.
It scared me and it broke my heart. I couldn’t seem to get out of my own way.
Shortly after my brother started his Alzheimer’s Journey, I was in the sunroom of our home on one of the estuary marshes of Rehoboth Bay, engaged in a morning meditation. I was having a bad case of ‘monkey brain’ – my mind kept wandering off to my brother and the horrors that awaited him – when a beautiful male red-winged blackbird perched himself on my window.
I became absolutely enchanted by him. His visits became a
bit of a ritual. He would come and perch on my window and stay for a few
minutes. Then, he would come right up to the window and looks at me. Right in
my eyes. Bold. Unafraid.
This lasted for a few moments and then he would return to his perch and start
to sing. It was a lovely little song. Short but quite intriguing. There was
something almost hypnotic about it. Something that drew me closer to him. Made
me pay closer attention.
It's as if he wanted me to learn it. He finished his warble, took one more look in my window and then fly away. He would return throughout the day. Sometimes just flying by. Other times, perching somewhere in the yard. Always singing his song.
What was really odd about this blackbird is that the male of this species are highly territorial. I have seen them aggressively chase away other blackbirds or seagulls or even White or Blue Heron who are just trying to fish nearby.
I have actually been chased by a male red-winged blackbird while working in my yard. Apparently, the old boy thought I was getting a bit too close to where he liked to perch and was making it clearly known that while I may have thought that this was my home and my yard, I was in his territory.
So, for a blackbird to come and intentionally perch next to my window and stay was quite a surprise. To have him stay and sing was actually stunning.
In Europe, blackbirds are associated with St. Kevin, because of stories of blackbirds nesting in his hand. St. Kevin was known as a person of tremendous gentleness and love.
Perhaps it was my sadness about my brother’s diagnosis. Perhaps it was my way of coping with the waves of anxiety that would rise up in me as I considered where his journey would take him. I’m not sure.
But I came to associate this blackbird with my brother and fancied that the cosmos was presenting me with a way to be symbolically and spiritually close to him even though we were separated by hundreds of miles – and his deteriorating mental status.
One day the red-winged blackbird came to perch on my windowsill and sang me his song. On a whim, I decided to sing softly to him. Of course, I sang a verse of Paul McCartney’s “Blackbird Fly”.
There was something in the verse that caught in my throat, “ . . . take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.”
I found myself unable to finish singing as tears streamed down my face. When I looked up, the blackbird was still there, looking at me with intense curiosity, cocking his head back and forth. Then, he stopped and sang a few more notes of his song, as if he were finishing my song for me.
And then, as quickly as he appeared, he flew away, leaving me with an indescribable but very clear and present sense of peace.
My brother died this Spring, just a little more than 10 years after his diagnosis. I saw a picture taken of him shortly before he died. I gasped and cried out with anguish. My once very handsome kid brother was in a wheelchair looking like a 90 year old man.
I sprang up from my chair and ran to the middle of the room where I stopped and looked around, not sure why I had gotten up and not at all certain where I was going. I just had to get away from where I was when I last saw that picture of him. And then I dissolved into uncontrollable sobs.
It was then that I realized that the one I knew as my brother was no longer here.
I’ve never looked at that picture again.
When the news of his death came, I felt the sting of loss and sadness but mingled with a deep sense of blessed relief that his suffering was over, that he was finally free, that like McCartney’s blackbird, he had flown “into the light of the dark black night”.
Here’s the thing about Advent: At some point, thinking about the Incarnation, about God becoming human, leads one inexorably to considering mortality. It’s the nature of being human. We have limits. God does not.
We are not God. God became human but humans cannot become God. Although, God knows, some of us try. We say Christ lives in us and so we are promised Life Eternal, but only after we die.
And so to look upon the Infant Jesus, the Prince of Peace, the one who holds the promise of Life Eternal only after he suffers and dies on the cross is also to look at our own vulnerability and the limits of our humanity.
When death comes to someone we love, especially one who is younger than we are, it brings our own mortality into painfully clear focus.
A few red-winged black birds have came to visit this Spring
and Summer. I got such comfort from them, feeling connected to the spirit of my
brother, especially since the pandemic has made it impossible for families to
gather for a funeral service or any sort or manner of a final goodbye.
They have long since flown away to warmer climes, but the memory of the
red-winged blackbird brings me a sense of peace and comfort and connection to
my brother’s spirit.
The last time we visited, I asked him if there was anything he had learned from this terrible disease. I will leave you with his words:
"Ask for help when you need it. Take it graciously when it comes. Try not to be disappointed when it doesn't. Be thankful for something every day. Do something for someone else as a way of saying thank you for your life.”
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