Michael Harding: Just after Christmas, I began talking to the birds

I think it was just after Christmas when I began talking to the birds. Leitrim was dry and frosty and I was able to stay in the garden for long periods. But I didn’t find it satisfying. The birds were too small.

The hanging wire feeder attracted tits and finches, so I thought a relationship might be possible. I had seen a redwing beside a large stone one day, plucking things from the ground and from beneath the dead leaves, and of course the blackbirds hop all over the place throughout January; as if they were already considering a spring courtship. But I knew none of them could sustain a relationship with me because none of them depended on me for food.

The tits and finches were different; as they hovered around the peanuts in the feeder, I felt we had a future.

Winter Nights

If I stood a few metres away for long enough they might get used to my presence. Then I could inch in closer. My hand would become a possibility; where they could feed from the few loose nuts I was holding. I remained utterly still, thinking I would end up like Saint Francis, with both arms outstretched and a halo of little birds flying around me in a cloud of love.

Michael Harding: The dead bee and the woman who lost her son

---

Michael Harding: The beloved woke up and I pretended I was doing yoga exercises

---

Michael Harding: Talking to strangers. That’s what I miss

---

Michael Harding: In January almost everything seems possible

---

But it didn’t happen.

One day a tit hovered before my face. I could feel the wind from his beating wing on my cheek. But with over-excitement I moved my hand as if to show him the nuts, and of course that frightened the rest of them.

“F**k you,” I hissed in a sudden rage that surprised not just myself but the beloved, who happened to be standing behind me.

“Are you okay?” she wondered.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied. “I was just trying to get closer to the tits.”

Whispering

Apart from standing in a garden during January, I spent hours in my studio by the stove. One morning while dozing I heard the voice of an old man whispering so low that I could not make out the words. I was convinced he must be outside the window in the yard, but on inspection the yard appeared empty apart from my tweed jacket and waistcoat hanging stiff with frost on the clothes line.

“F**k that,” I hissed, not seeing the beloved gathering garments from the other end of the same line.

“What’s up now?” she wondered.

So I told her.

“I had an appointment at the hospital today,” I explained. “I left my tweeds on the line to freshen them up yesterday. But I forgot about them. And now they’re frozen.”

“But you can wear a suit,” she suggested.

“I don’t need to,” I replied. “The appointment was cancelled. I got a text a few minutes ago; that’s when I remembered my jacket and waistcoat were still out here.”

I returned to my studio, still not realising where the ghostly voice had come from, until I leaned my ear close to the stove and heard the wind whispering in the cinders. But I didn’t notice the beloved following me.

Stirring tea

“What are you doing now?” she wondered, holding jacket and waistcoat in her hands. Once again I told her the truth.

“I was listening to the stove,” I declared. “I thought I heard a voice.”

“I’ll leave your jacket and waistcoat here,” she said warily, slinging them on the back of a chair, “They’ll thaw out fast enough.”

When she was gone I recorded my weekly podcast, which for me is a way of connecting with other people.

“I am present,” I declare to the listeners. “I am here with you.”

I even imagine listeners stirring tea in their own kitchens, or walking along some shoreline, or in a forest; with me in their ears.

“But I am here,” I assure them, uttering each word sincerely into the microphone. And I always end with the phrase “Thank you for being here”, before discarding the headphones and closing down the computer.

Looking out the window I see the beloved heading off for her studio. And I know my listeners are far away, in worlds I know nothing about. And I accept that the birds don’t read my existence as significant. And the stove is silent.

I am not present to anyone else and nobody is present to me, because at the deepest level, the lockdown is about being alone; and there is no one to comfort me.

Yet every day, as I reach this same threshold, I feel the same serenity.