Small gestures, barely perceived
“I hope you always remember the hummingbird wings of your life: the small pulses that kept time, even when it seemed that the larger world might pass you by. The music, the laughter, the small gesture, barely perceived. The attention and care, and the stories, where is is still not certain how it was received.”
Maybe these words caught my attention because I am focused on hummingbirds this week. We have three feeders on our deck. I watch the hummingbirds from the living room all year round. Now that the days are warmer, I sit in an Adirondack chair with my book and tea right under one of the feeders. They fly by so close that strands of my hair gently wave in the air. We have two kinds of hummingbirds here. Anna’s hummingbirds are abundant in our neck of the woods and reside here all year round. Their iridescent feathers and sparkling rosy-pink throats glisten in the sunshine. In the spring, I see flashes of brilliant gold. The Rufous hummingbirds have arrived.
Rufous hummingbirds are amongst the feistiest of all hummingbirds. Yet, after many hours of watching, a small, determined female Anna’s hummingbird seems to be the queen of them all here on our deck. Strange, as usually, the larger, more aggressive hummingbirds establish dominance. My little Anna’s hummingbird chases everyone away from the feeders, except for two other Anna’s females. Daughters, perhaps? Or maybe sisters?
Whether chasing each other away or playing, they fly through the air with a soft humming sound caused by the tips of their outermost wing feathers vibrating. My husband remarked yesterday that even though they are so quiet, the silence is noticeable when they are absent.
So you can see why Nichols equates the quiet presence of hummingbirds to small gestures, barely perceived.
These words had me thinking, have I made a difference? I feel a deep sense of fulfilment in believing I have. When I say that, I am not referring to the big question. “If I can make a difference in just one person’s life, then I believe I achieved my purpose.” (Hagir Elsheikh)
No, I am thinking more, as Morgan Harper Nichols writes, of the small gestures I have extended that may have lightened a day, made someone smile, or given hope. Gestures that I did not give much thought to other than they felt like the right thing to do.
I have no plans to list these gestures for you. I have not even tried to identify things I might have done. The quote found its way into a question I have been pondering this past week. How have I lived a good life?
I want to share with you one small thing, not something I did, but something I helped facilitate. A small gesture that not only helped others but was also a gift for me.
Back in 2020, at the start of the pandemic, I was walking through a local park with my old dog, Tucker. At one point, he looked intently down a side trail. A young woman was walking towards us. She looked to be in her late 20s. She was walking along with her head down, shoulders slumped, and hands in her pockets. Tucker just stared at her. She took no notice of us until she almost bumped into us. And then she became aware of our presence because Tucker went to greet her. He nudged her hand, sat down by her feet and leaned his body into her. She tentatively placed her hand on his head. I remarked that Tucker seemed to like her. She did not react. Then I added, "I believe Tucker thinks you may need a hug." She lifted her head to look at me, a slight smile wavered on her lips. She then leaned down and wrapped herself around him. Tucker put his head on her shoulder and for a few moments, they were lost in each other. The young woman then straightened up and held my gaze. With another slight smile she said "Thank you". Tucker came and sat at my side and leaned against me as we watched her walk away.
Tucker often noticed when someone needed comfort. On our walks, we regularly met up with John, who had recently been widowed and had lost the will to live. John and I would sit on a bench by the river to chat and Tucker would lay his head on his lap during our conversations. We would also run into Margaret, a bubbly 85-year-old who spoke frankly about her decline into dementia. Again, Tucker would quietly lean against Margaret while she stroked his fur. And, much like our encounter with the young woman on the trail yesterday, Tucker would sometimes approach complete strangers. During those moments, Tucker would simply be there for the person, not asking for treats or nudging someone's hand to be petted. Simply leaning into them, sharing a small piece of himself to help someone feel better. I hope my small gestures, barely perceived, have been similarly received.
The quote I shared above continues,
“I hope you remember all the ways you learned to move in the spaces between things, subtly yet meaningfully still learning to come alive, wholeheartedly, before it all made sense.
I cannot tell you what will happen to all of the efforts you made that were never named, but I can tell you that we live in a world where the wings of hummingbirds beat thousands of times each minute: a motion that goes unnoticed, yet changes what it moves through. And I hope, when you happen to think of hummingbirds, you consider how that kind of motion in the world might hold meaning in your life, too.”