Life and Death in the Last Days of the Year

This morning I was upset to find that one of the new ducklings was dead.

They'd hatched yesterday, an extremely hot day at Barnsley. There were three in all. Two were looking normal -- with yellow fluffy feathers, and the third was a runt.

In fact I only noticed the third maybe minutes after it'd got out of the egg. This wasn't in the nest where the others were hatched (I'm guessing) but in the middle of the pen. Its egg had been discarded earlier by the mother and I hadn't expected anything to hatch from it.

The duckling looked like it was in trouble -- it was just lying there out of the egg and at first I thought it was dead, but then I noticed it moving ever so slightly. Braving the attentions of Howard the drake, I went in and picked it up. It seemed to be smaller than the others, even allowing for the fact that its feathers were still wet and thin. It had trouble holding its head up and one of its eyes still seemed to be stuck shut.

I phoned my friend Cathy who advised me to keep it warm for an hour and then place it back in the nest with the mum for warmth (and being attacked by Howard in the process). I did this, and the last I saw of it yesterday it was still alive and chirping. This morning I found it dead, near the flat water tray I'd rigged for the ducklings (one which they couldn't drown in). Its feathers were still wet and thin. I recognised it by the eye that was still stuck shut.

My guess is that it's instincts had made it go in search of food and it had fallen in the tray, and then not been able to find its way back to the nest, and froze to death. This was more upsetting than if I'd found it dead yesterday. To hold something so small and vulnerable in one's hand and give it a chance makes for a powerful bond.

I removed it from the pen and buried it under the Western flagstone of my circle. This is the one that faces Sugar Loaf Mountain and the interior, so I associate that point with Earth, and Earth with the body and life and death. And that seemed the right place to lay it to rest, poor thing. I cried a lot.

Guess I'm a bit sentimental to have things like ducks. I've grieved for a little life and that will pass. There are still two others, though one seems to have changed colour this morning, with black and gold instead of just gold. That means it's a Blue Muscovy like Howard, and maybe a drake. They seem to be doing OK.

And I guess that's the thing isn't it? Death isn't the opposite of Life, but part of it. The opposite of life is non-existence, not death. Even though the little duckling died, at least it had a chance, and that was better than no chance at all. There's nothing certain in this life, even that which we might feel overwhelmingly ought to happen.

Rather, we take our choices, make our effort and see what comes. If all goes well then so much the better, but if it fails to eventuate, then at least we've made the effort, in the end that's what life is all about -- making the effort.