Unexpected visitors

When you invite nature in, it doesn't always RSVP politely

A few years ago, when we were still living in California, I bought a bird feeder. It wasn’t an intentional purchase. My husband was washing the car, and instead of helping him or watching, I decided to take a walk down the street.

El Camino Real is one of the oldest roads on the California coast and one of the longest. You can drive it all the way down to San Diego, more than 600 miles marked with the old bells that once signaled a day’s journey by horse.

When I was growing up, this was the only street I could take the bus on. It took me 25 minutes to walk there, and from there, I was free to ride to the mall four miles away and wander around before heading back home. Years later, we settled just eight miles from that starting point, a little further than I ever ventured back then.

The car wash where my husband scrubbed the car that day was technically new territory, so I decided to explore. Not more than half a block north, I stumbled on a small shop I was surprised still survived Bay Area rent. It was a store dedicated entirely to bird food and feeders, and something about it felt serendipitous, like a tiny invitation from the universe to slow down and look closer. That sense of curiosity, more than anything, pulled me through the door.

The man behind the counter was cheery and eager to help. He followed me from shelf to shelf, explaining everything as if I might become his best customer.

“If I just wanted to attract some cute little birds to my porch, what should I buy?” I asked.

“You should take this simple feeder and some peanut sunflower mix. They love it,” he said, beaming.

I brought it home and hung it outside our kitchen window. Within days, we had house finches, chickadees, and song sparrows visiting regularly. My husband and I took turns guessing which species were which, eventually learning to tell by color and shape. “Best $25 you’ve spent all month,” he said one evening, watching them flit around while we ate dinner.

I’ve never been the outdoorsy type, but the idea of noticing nature has always felt romantic to me. Spending my formative years in New York City, the only wildlife I ever saw were squirrels darting around park benches, rats on the subway tracks, and cockroaches bold enough to claim space for themselves. Maybe a few braver animals made their homes high above us, but I was too busy wandering the streets to look up and find out.

Watching the birds arrive for the first time was unexpectedly exciting. I was learning which species called our neighborhood home. I imagined one day getting good enough with my DSLR to photograph them, catching their stillness and movement in the same frame.

A few weeks later, a bird arrived that was too large for the feeder. It hung from the bottom, twisting and pecking, trying to fit its beak through the tiny holes. We leaned closer to the window. A woodpecker. I started dreaming out loud about attracting owls and other birds of prey.

Maybe that’s why my husband showed up the next day with a new feeder, one meant for woodpeckers. The doll, I thought, smiling at how he’d jumped on my enthusiasm.

But the following morning, we woke up to chaos. Large wings flapping, harsh cries echoing across the balcony. Instead of the woodpeckers I’d hoped for, a rowdy group of crows had shown up, fighting over the peanuts. My husband wasn’t thrilled. He was convinced they’d ruin his freshly washed car parked just below the feeder.

I watched them for a while, irritated but also strangely impressed. My little plan to bring peace and beauty to our mornings had turned into a scene of noise and mess, and I couldn’t stop laughing. Maybe that’s the thing about intention: you can set it, but you don’t always get to decide what arrives.

Now that we live in another state, I think about that morning sometimes. The chaos, the commotion, the sound of wings against the feeder. I haven’t bought one here yet, but sometimes I catch myself looking out the window and wondering who might show up if I did.