These particular birds

On my changing relationship to home

This is a story about home.

This story began at Lan Su Chinese Garden, a little gem of an oasis tucked in a shabby pocket of Portland’s Old Town Chinatown neighborhood.

I used to visit the garden once or twice per year, or when I had guests, even though it’s only a few minutes away. But now I’m a member with free admission, so I can pop in for a visit without a second thought. Lan Su has become one of my swing-bys, like a favorite cafe or street mural.

I recently stopped in for a quick late-afternoon stroll to gather whatever vestiges of winter light I could. But by the time I finished parking and made my way through the gate, the light was already fading and a chill sharpened the air.

As I stepped into the pebble mosaic entry courtyard, I noticed some friendly commotion at a table where staff members appeared to be pouring tea. Could it be a membership perk? Never one to turn down a free gift, I wandered over to investigate. Someone handed me a paper cup filled with steaming golden liquid. It was chrysanthemum tea — a dried flower bloom steeped in boiling water. It looked like some sort of magical fairy brew.

Photo credit: The Qi (click the link for a video of the bloom)

Lan Su is oriented around a reflective pond rimmed with water lilies and stocked with koi. It’s hard to believe you’re in downtown Portland even though you can hear city noise and see skyscrapers beyond the garden walls.

I gazed out onto the water, breathing in the fragrant steam as I waited for the scalding tea to cool.

Something fluttered in a nearby tree. I turned toward the movement and noticed a busy little group of black-capped chickadees hopping among the leafless branches, chittering away as they picked at tufts of moss and lichen.

Chickadees are common in Portland. Every morning, as I drink my coffee, I look out the kitchen window and watch their antics on my back yard feeder.

Standing there in Lan Su, it dawned on me that these particular birds were not the same chickadees who visit my back yard. These were strangers; charming, but unknown to me.

I realized that the individuals who frequent my back yard feeder aren’t just random birds — they’re neighbors. You could even say we share a home. Seeds they gather from my feeder might nourish their babies. They might even recognize me.

I’m not saying I’m Snow White or anything, with friendly forest creatures landing on my shoulders. But I suddenly recognized the kinship between my backyard chickadees and me.

I do kind of wish I were Snow White.

When my kids come home (an event that grows less frequent and predictable each year), they tease Rael and me about our attachment to the back yard wildlife. This is where I admit we don’t just feed the birds; we also toss peanuts out for the squirrels, crows and jays. The kids insist we fuss over the animals because we no longer have children to fuss over. They find it all a bit maudlin and adorable.

I laugh along with them, but I know that’s not it. I miss my kids — their energy and physical presence and unique them-ness — but I don’t long for the days when they were babies or toddlers. Home felt smaller then, tightly bound by the intensity of our foursome. There was always something to clean or fix or manage or cook, every square inch occupied, every breath breathed.

Home is bigger now, and I don’t just mean because only two of us live here. Home feels less circumscribed by my house and more open to those not directly related to me, including, it seems, my non-human neighbors. My kids’ absence feels more like space rather than lack. Not always, but more often as time goes by.

I sipped my chrysanthemum tea, now cool enough not to burn my tongue. The chickadees scattered in search of better foraging, or, perhaps, warmer surroundings. It was the cusp of evening and hot tea could no longer chase away the chill. I took a few more sips then tossed the cup in the bin. I headed toward the exit and was soon outside the walls of the garden, back in the city. I buckled myself into the car, and headed home.

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Notes of note

• I just finished reading DOPPLEGANGER by Naomi Klein (affiliate link; here’s my policy). It answered long-standing questions about how (and why) conspiracy theories take hold, and the destabilizing mirror world online. Have you read it? There’s so much to talk about.

• I loved this series of airport glimpses by

  Rosecrans Baldwin
  . Something to carry with you into the busy holiday travel season.

• I got some exciting news from my publisher about PARENT HACKS. I’ll share more when I know more. For now, I’ll just point out that my little book fits nicely into a stocking and looks cute wrapped, so if you need a gift for a new- or expectant parent, there ya go.

I wish I could remember who sent me this photo.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this newsletter, click the ♡ to let me know, and feel free to share it with a friend or on Substack Notes.

As always, I love to hear from you. See you in the comments. 💙

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I’m Asha Dornfest, a Portland, Oregon-based author & parent of two young adults, and this is Parent of Adults, my invitation to compare notes on life beyond the empty nest. Because 🪹🤷🏽‍♀️⁇

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