“Early each day to the steps of Saint Paul’s
The little old bird woman comes,”
In 1964, the Sherman Brothers wrote a song about an old woman who sat on the steps of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. She did not beg. She sold bags of breadcrumbs to passers-by for twopence; to feed the birds. The young ones are hungry, their nests are so bare. All it takes is tuppence.
I have been to Saint Paul’s Cathedral. It stands on Ludgate Hill, overlooking London for the past 1,400 years. Its dome is among the highest in the world: 528 steps. The climb to the top is worth it, I was told, for the view. So I went.
There was a bird woman on the steps. There were many, on the third, or fourth up into the church, selling bags of seeds and breadcrumbs. Pay what you want, pay what you can. There were other sellers as well, of water and fountain drinks and peanuts and ice cream and souvenirs. Newspapers. Calling out headlines: The young ones are hungry…
Hungry and sick, and at war and at risk, and in danger and in need. Levels are rising, not the good ones. Those that should be are dropping. The scale of suffering, loss, devastation, is everywhere, on the front page… yet, the woman on the steps was calling: Feed the birds. Tuppence a bag.
Tuppence, in 1964, was worth 0.0083 of a pound; today, the equivalent of about fourteen pennies. People walked by. People don’t have time to waste, or fourteen pennies. People are sensible, rational, practical, not bad people, tired, busy, preoccupied, sometimes sad, in a hurry to reach the top, see the view, leave. Besides, there have been and will always be birds and people, too many, in need. Tuppence will not change anything.
I had some spare time and money.
528 steps later, when you get to the top, look down, I had been told. I forgot. I was distracted; the sky was full of birds over Saint Paul’s.
“So few grains of happiness
measured against all the dark
and still…”
When I was a child, we all slept in the same bedroom and watched the rain and parades and lamplights at dusk from a cold but wide windowsill. One we could sit on and listen to stories and poems and songs that began with: “Once upon a time, the only view was good, and the only way was up.”
We had a second-floor view on the street. We had maps and atlases, postcards and every book in the public library. We had every foggy windowpane on every bus to draw on. We had endless jade and gold when it rained; wet grass and daffodils.
Up we went – well, forward we went – to the park, on Saturdays. My mother had – still has – a soft peach raincoat, not very good for rain, but perfect for rolling down every hill we climbed, and we did. It also had deep pockets she filled with little pains au lait. For every child: one with cheese; one, Nutella. And for the birds: plain.
“The world asks of us
only the strength we have,”
We had bread. We had hills. We had picnics on those hills. We fed the birds, their share and ours. We had skies filled with birds. We were rich, so rich. We still are:
Yesterday, two nineteen-month-olds and I went up a hill. We would have a picnic; they would have pizza, the birds would have the bread. Two plates, two slices in bite sized pieces, two ravenous mini humans. Someone giggled. I looked over: empty plate. The little one had fed the pigeon!
So few grains of happiness, yes, and all the dark. Still, the scales balance. Tuppence.
“The world asks of us
Jane Hirshfield, The Weighing
only the strength we have and we give it.
Then it asks more, and we give it.”
This post is for:
The friends who gave their money, their words, and their hearts after the explosion in Lebanon on the 4th of August,
C. and G., who gave their hands and feet and time and food and medicine to strangers,
L. and C., who gave their wedding presents away in Red Cross donations,
M. and P., who gave their home, their money, their time and every fig and grape in their garden,
who taught me to feed the birds, and see the birds.
M.,
I love you. Happy birthday.