Sam conclusions

It was the morning I heard the shrill cry of the red-winged blackbird that I found the note stuck to my front door. “We’re back” it simply read. Back? That time already? I mumbled to no one. It was signed ‘Liz and Chris’, which sorta meant that my assignment to care for Sam, the Embden goose, would be winding down now that his fulltime caregivers had returned home. Hell! This was way too soon to sign off on my every-couple-of-days mentorship moments with Sam. It would be like dropping out of flying school just when you hit chapter twelve—the lessons on take-off and landing.

You see, some days when I went down to check in on Sam, and we got the noisy greeting part out of the way, I’d first look after his water supply and then toss a few scoops of feed into his feeder. Not a heck of a lot left to do except to maybe find a corner to sit and ponder; sketch a thing or two. Oh sure I could have just left or, well, maybe not: seemed like something always pulled at me to hang out awhile and, well, keep Sam company: Keep each other company actually. I mean being alone is all right; peace and solitude, certainly, to gather oneself. But I kept in mind the notion that Sam just couldn’t head down to a café whenever he wanted to connect with another of his sort. After all, I reminded myself, I was his neighbour and comin’ over for a sit was the neighbourly thing to do. Never mind what the rest say, right Sam?

You see, from time to time it seemed that Sam had in mind the passenger seat of my truck, with a café visit in his head. At least that’s how it appeared to me. But I figured he’d balk at the idea of being strapped into a kiddie’s seat. And besides, knowing Sam’s voice range he’d likely out-conversation everyone in the place.

Also, I’ve come to appreciate the grounding atmosphere of his barn abode; the sun wandering through the grit; the afternoons sitting on the overturned galvanized wash tub out back, taking in the emptiness. Goose-Zen you could say: sharing space, holed-up on a side road in a absolute silence.

Chickadee-dee-dee! That sound would travel from the grasslands; then the hammering beat of a downy woodpecker working somewhere over there; the cracking of raw earth opening the clothes of winter; the chanting of the creek chasing the days of March through dogwood and cattails. All of it made me consider how moments often arrive at our door that initially seem to be out of step with the plan. Yet, go with it and it turns out to be exactly the medicine you need. A rest note in music; a comma in writing; negative space in sculpting, all of it adds balance to form. That’s my take on it anyway.

By the way, I’ve figured Sam is the king of grooming: Doesn’t need a mirror. He knows to simply be and carry on with a grace of life. You might want to peck out a dead feather or two now and then. Sorta like keeping yourself together by grooming body, mind and soul. Oh ya, and don’t forget to enjoy a bath in a kiddies’ pool out back in the heart of winter once in awhile: Sorta in the same genre as making snow angels. And from Sam, I’m reminded of strength in family bonds, of loyalties that geese teach. In fact, the story of the goose that laid the golden egg is a parable about sharing versus greed.

For certain, Sam medicine can be good for ya. I can honestly say that these weeks with Sam have pulled me out of the blizzards of day-to-day; offered up pauses for reflection. Get to stop awhile, witness your own being emerge from hibernation. It’s easy to take. All ya gotta do is open a gap and stroll right into nothingness. It’s there where you’ll catch the scent of a turning season.