Hummingbird Magic

PART ONE

Last year at my friend’s birthday party, I recognized a guy from the tennis club, a guy who always played on court one (my deepest aspiration), so I went over to introduce myself, and as I approached I heard him say the words, “…feeding the hummingbirds.” When I had found myself living in California three years ago, practically by accident, I had entered a mini romance with hummingbirds, stopping to gaze longingly at them and even take their picture if possible, which was fairly rare, because hummingbirds are constantly in motion. I had glimpsed one or two in Chicago over the decades, but in California they were plentiful, and in Palm Springs they were ubiquitous. I found them gloriously captivating and mysterious. When I had arrived in Palm Springs, Amazon magically recommended a hummingbird documentary in which the birds had been slowed down so that the human eye could truly see them, hanging there in midair, beating their wings 70 times a second, while their bodies swayed…in midair. It was mesmerizing. Speaking of magic, the videographer had placed a tiny camera inside a flower, capturing the hummingbird’s beak entering, from the flower’s point of view. 

So I was intrigued to hear that court one tennis player Jason feeds the hummingbirds. Faithfully. Every night. By hand, he said. 

“Wait, so they land on the feeder while you’re holding it?” This just seemed preposterous. Hummingbirds are elusive. After all, they’re birds!

“Yes, I use a hand-held feeder,” he said matter-of-factly.

“And they land on it.” 

Yes, they land on it. 

“When can I feed them?” As part of my fake-retirement (I am indeed still working, but my life in Palm Springs has taken on a retirement vibe), my entire social circle now consists of gay men. Their presence has a joyfully un-inhibiting effect on me, so it seemed absolutely fine to invite myself over to Jason’s, even though we had just met.

The very next evening, I went to his house to feed the birds, and while none of them landed on my feeder, a gorgeous purple-headed hummingbird did drink from my feeder, hovering before me in midair. Mind. Blown. 

Seriously: it really did blow my mind. Because the second the hummingbird hovered over my feeder, I sensed that even one thought would be felt by the hummingbird, one thought might cause it to dart away. I cleared my mind, almost involuntarily, and slowed my breathing. The beating of its wings fanned the hand that held the feeder, cooling it off like an actual fan and making, yes, a humming sound, quite a loud hum for such a tiny creature. We made eye contact. I could see its individual feathers, gorgeously defined, and its improbably long and seemingly fragile beak, hovering before me looking just like it did in the slow-motion documentary scenes, except that its wings were a blur as they fanned my hand. It tipped its beak forward so I could see the top of its shining purple head, then it sipped with what seemed to be a long, transparent tongue, like a tiny straw the diameter of a thread. It was arresting. Jason took a picture. He said it was a male.

At any given time, at least ten hummingbirds were flying around us that evening. Actually, they were impossible to count, unless they landed, which they never did all at once. Jason had a dozen feeders strategically arranged around his courtyard, and he had offered me the best feeding spot, the chair he sat in every night, the chair from which the hummingbirds were accustomed to being fed. Simply being in the midst of so many hummingbirds was exhilarating. It was an incomparable sort of paradox to experience that level of internal exhilaration while sitting absolutely still, so my little yellow feeder would seem inviting.

I thanked Jason profusely when I left and then proceeded to text everyone I’d ever met to proclaim that I had just experienced a peak life moment, like the time I stood beneath a 100-foot waterfall in Maui and time stopped. The next day, when I told Jason I’d had a peak life experience, he responded: “But you have to come back, you have to see what it’s like when they land on your feeder!”

As a yoga teacher and longtime practitioner of presence, I was amused. He wanted me to want more?! But I’ve trained myself to be happy with what is! 

“Jason,” I protested, “Just let me enjoy the moment! I don’t want to feel aspirational!" 

But in truth, I did want more!

I reflected on the mental state the hummingbirds had elicited in me. But wait, did the hummingbirds elicit that state, or did spending my adult life learning to be still and breathe simply kick in habitually? I was excited to explore that question the next time I fed them. Later that day, I texted to ask him when I could come back.

PART TWO: more to come