By Erin Strybis
@erinstrybis

I started bird-watching during year one of the COVID-19 pandemic. Stuck at home with my son and husband for weeks due to shelter-in-place orders, I gazed out the window at my feathered friends during meals and even when I should have been working remotely. I envied their community. 

In our tree-lined neighborhood on Chicago’s edge, I watched robins and chickadees hop across our yard collecting scraps for their nests. The sparrows congregated like notes in a staff on the powerlines that hang above our garage. Heads cocked, they gossiped back and forth while I wondered about their conversations. With my head in my hand, I’d sigh at the sight of them.

After Chicago lifted shelter-in-place orders, the activity outside our window increased. That summer, two neighboring families formed a pod, with their children playing together almost daily. At first, they invited us to join their gatherings, which I reluctantly declined. My husband Jay, a cancer survivor, preferred we continue isolating to avoid catching the virus. 

With time, their invitations ceased, but my craving to connect remained. Whenever I saw their pod, a pit formed in my stomach.

Occasionally when our neighbors’ kids scaled the jungle gym next door, our preschooler Jack would be outside, too. He’d race to the fence lining our yards and grip the slats, observing his old playmates. He’d turn to me and ask, “Mommy, can I play with them?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” I’d answer, crouching beside him. “We have to keep our distance because of the virus, remember?” Jack would hang his head. 

“You’ll be able to play with them soon,” I’d add, wrapping my arms around him. “They’re still your friends, OK?” He’d nod and retreat from the fence.

Each time this scene repeated itself, I felt less sure of my words. I wondered how long we could go without their companionship—moms I used to meet for book club and cookie exchanges, kids Jack used to see at birthday parties and playdates. The truth is, I was lonely, too, but I tried to wear a brave face for Jack. Isolation was the price we paid for peace of mind about our health.

Cooped up with my family for months on end, I felt like a caged bird. Following the swooping freedom of the cardinals and sparrows became an escape and a comfort. I wanted to join them, to fly into a new story, one where caution didn’t bar us from the gifts of connection.

***

Birds, like humans, are social creatures. Many migrate together when food and nesting sources become scarce. Some fly in a ring to strengthen their wings before migrating. As the saying goes, “birds of a feather flock together.” 

Hummingbirds can travel up to 500 miles in search of sweetness. With wings that beat at least 53 times a second, they need a lot of nectar to survive—up to 50 percent of their body weight, I’ve read. Hummingbirds, however, don’t migrate in flocks. Each flies its path alone. 

Imagine a creature no larger than a credit card enduring a solo trip cross-country. What happens when she arrives? After months of isolation, what has she become?

***

On an 80-degree day in May 2021, I perched on the edge of my neighbor’s picnic table, half-listening to my friends. The topic of conversation now escapes me; I was too busy stealing glances at my son, playing alone in the sandbox, while their children romped across the yard playing tag.

Tense with uncertainty, I resisted the urge to encourage Jack to join their game. I wanted to engage with my mom friends, but I couldn’t settle my racing thoughts. We had finally left the comfort of our nest, but we were flailing. Had I done this to him? To myself?

A flutter of movement drew my attention. Outside my neighbor’s fence, a robin pecked at a dandelion puff, gently pulling out seeds, perfectly at home with herself. Meanwhile, I had what I craved after months of confinement: a community, and still tears welled behind my sunglasses. How many hours would I have to sit in the sun and pretend like we belonged here? 

All in all, we’d spent ten months as a unit of three before Jay and I sent Jack back to preschool that January. We’d only just begun socializing outdoors after Jay and I received our vaccinations in April. In that strange first year with COVID-19, our neighbors camped and spent holidays together, growing as close as family. How could I expect ease with them after our lengthy absence? 

***

And then there are those friendships that have already proven themselves across time and distance. 

In August 2021, our family traveled to St. Louis to reconnect with our college friends. We'd spent a decade of vacations with them—cracking jokes, sight-seeing, and playing cards until midnight. Before kids, we had gambled our way through Vegas and cruised to Cozumel. Afterwards, our destinations became family-centric: Disney World, Galveston Beach, Indianapolis. 

Then COVID-19 showed up like a wrecking ball and broke the tradition.

After five hours in the car, we arrived at Jill and Robby’s doorstep, crowding inside to hug our college friends. Their kids—taller and talkative—clustered at our ankles and thrusted Jack into their world of make-believe. Jay and I toured Robby and Jill’s new home, oohing and awing at the fireplace, the granite countertops, the master bedroom. The men moved to the basement in search of beer. Jill shoved pizzas in the oven, and I sat at the counter preparing a salad with Stephani, talking nonstop. My ribs began to ache from laughter. Like a favorite sweatshirt recovered from my closet, these friendships slipped on easily. 

Following dinner, we migrated to the backyard. Clad in bright swimsuits, our children circled a yellow slip-’n-slide. Blades of grass slapped against their ankles as they took turns cruising down a plastic strip primed with dish soap for maximum slip. Jack threw his body forward effortlessly, sliding into a shallow pool. Childish giggles twisted into the clouded sky above. 

Joy rippled from our children’s bodies, cascading against us. From our seats on the patio, we talked of everything and nothing—vaccines and contagion, school starting and social media, children and hummingbirds. 

“We never had hummingbirds before we moved here, but we set up this feeder and now we see them all the time!” Jill exclaimed. Three tiny birds flitted around a sugar water feeder, each zooming in for a sip of sweetness. Gray wings beat and blurred. Needled beaks poked and prodded.

“They’re fighting for nectar,” Robby explained. “They’re ruthless.” To me, their movements looked more like dancing. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. 

One article I consulted later says hummingbirds "live on the edge of survival,” and, if deprived of sustenance, “they can starve to death in three to five hours.” The edge of survival is a precarious place to live. Could we really fault them for their dogged pursuit of nectar?

“They’re beautiful,” I said. Overhead the sky shifted from pearly gray to cobalt. The patio lights flickered on, showering us in a golden glow as thick, humid air wrapped around my body. I breathed in wet grass mottled with citrine and exhaled slowly. I wanted to bottle up this moment so I could savor it always. 

Our children shimmered around us in the twinkle lights, soaked from head to toe. Jill doled out the ice cream sandwiches while I wrapped Jack in a fuzzy bath towel. Hands clutching his frozen treat, Jack snuggled up alongside me and took his first bite.

“This is really yummy,” Jack said, licking his lips. “I LOVE it here.”

“Me too,” I replied, scuffing his damp hair with my fingertips. 

I think of the distance the hummingbird travels for a sweetness just like this. How long can a person survive without the sweet nectar of friendship?

After we finished our dessert, everyone lined up on the patio and took a picture in front of the twinkle lights. My husband draped his arm around me. Jack, still bare-chested, leaned back against our legs. Our little flock, willing to travel so long and so far, had finally recovered the community we needed to sustain us. 

Guest essay written by Erin Strybis. Erin is a Chicago-based writer who loves connecting with other moms through storytelling. Her writing about motherhood has appeared in The Washington Post, Coffee + Crumbs, Mother.ly, Living Lutheran and The Everymom. She also writes Nourish, a monthly newsletter to help you be kinder to yourself and others. Find Erin on Instagram and at her blog.