This morning the bird feeders are empty.
If I’m honest, they’ll probably stay that way until Friday.
Over the past month, our little feathered neighbors have become accustomed to finding breakfast here. Three feeders can be emptied in a single day, not always because the birds eat every seed, but because they search, sort, and scatter much of it onto the ground below. One feeder still has seed, just not the kind they seem to prefer.
As I looked at the empty feeders this morning, I found myself feeling guilty.
Would they come looking for breakfast and leave disappointed? Would they find another place and never return? Should I spend the money to refill them today, even though I know they have plenty of natural food available?
I have a feeling I’m not the only person who has wrestled with these thoughts.
My mom, who is eighty years old, feels the same quiet responsibility. Her visitors are different, a raccoon raising babies nearby, a few cats that have found refuge in her garage, and the birds that stop by each day, but the feeling is the same. We care for these little lives that cross our paths, and over time their routines become part of ours.
Perhaps that is one of the unexpected gifts of paying attention.
We begin by feeding wildlife, but somewhere along the way they begin feeding something in us too. They give shape to our mornings, a reason to look outside, and a quiet sense of purpose.
The truth is, the birds don’t need me to survive.
Long before I hung a feeder, they found seeds in the grasses, insects beneath the leaves, berries in the shrubs, and shelter in the trees. They will continue to do those things whether my feeders are full today or not.
The feeder isn’t what keeps nature alive.
It is simply one small act of hospitality.
Maybe that’s the lesson today.
There is a difference between caring for nature and believing we are responsible for all of it. One is stewardship. The other can quietly become a weight we were never meant to carry.
The birds will come and go.
Some will stop at the empty feeder before moving on to the next place. Others will search the ground for the seed that was scattered yesterday. They’ll continue doing what birds have always done.
And when the feeders are full again, they’ll likely return—not because they couldn’t live without them, but because this little corner of the world has become one more welcoming stop along their way.
Perhaps that is enough.
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