I am seated outside on a lawn chair, basking in the
mid-morning sun. This is my favorite thing to do, especially since it’s been
raining non-stop for a few weeks now. Duke, the German shepherd, is napping under
my chair; Benson, the black lab, is stretched out on the lawn, sunbathing. With
the ‘short rains’ season, it’s usually so cold throughout the day. So, the sun
feels good on my skin. I have carried several things with me to move along this
studying agenda; it has been three years since I had to study for school, so I
need a refresher.
A Christopher Hill book, printed pages from Baker’s
Anthology, a few loose scripts on 17th-century texts, creative writing workshop
submissions, a manuscript I’m working on, my leather-bound notebook, a blue
highlighter, a pen, a bowl of freshly diced watermelon, and a glass of water.
They are placed strategically on the table so that I know what to reach out for
when needed. There’s a stack of misprinted printing papers on the book shelf
that I write on habitually; it’s the easiest to grab when I get an idea for a
story. I enjoy writing manuscripts, developing the framework. I find it easier to scribble ideas in my
handwriting, string them into sentences, compile them into paragraphs, and when
I finally type them in, I fill meat in the bones, and voila, the story.
My legs are outstretched on the adjacent seat,
luxuriating in the sun. The table is against a tree that is providing some shade.
Reading history is always fascinating. I’m enjoying the 17th-century English prose
class because it’s a subjective way to learn about history, since the texts are
the opinions and experiences of influential people during the English
revolution. The writing workshops are hilarious and engaging. I honestly wish
it were under different circumstances, and we were able to meet in-person.
Nevertheless, we are hacking this digital learning experience. No one could
have predicted that online classes would be a global norm in 2020, especially
over teleconference. But it happened, and here we are. Tunasonga tukisonga, Swahili for ‘We move, regardless.’
Life in the Arts is a new field for me. I have always been in the health and environment discipline I’m learning the
hows as we move along. Halfway through the workshop submissions, I pause and
look around. Two birds are drinking water from the dog’s water bowl. I adjust
my glasses and look closely, a male red-cheeked Cordon and an orange Weaver
bird. I watch them for a while; they take turns stooping to drink water,
balancing on the rim of the bowl, then fly off to the flowers on the fence. My
brother, Kigen, is a bird-watching enthusiast, so he set up a bird station. The
bird feeder and the water trough are hanging on the eaves of the roof. I wonder
why the birds are not using them.
Being a rainy season, typically the second planting
season of the year, the flowers are in full bloom. Different colors, types,
shapes, and sizes. A buffet for the birds. There’s a tiny forest (a woodlot, if
you may) bordering the fence, leading to a river at the bottom of the ridge.
This woodlot is home to hundreds of bird species that flock around, mostly early
in the morning. I pause and listen; the chirping, the occasional fluttering of
wings, some warbling in the trees- beautiful, tranquil, and melodic.
I try to trace the two birds, but they have blended in
with the rest. I see about eight Whydah birds on the power lines. They are
known as Chepkosiit in Kalenjin, my tribal language. I can’t tell which particular species they are.
But with the long tail and grey feathers, they are all males. An eagle flies
low, obviously on a mission to snatch a neighbor’s chicks. I also spot a
red-billed fire finch somewhere on the hedge. Kigen has taught me a thing or
two about birds. I go over to check the feeder and trough. There are no more pellets,
and the water trough is clogged- so freshwater isn’t moving from the bottle to
the channel. They are perched pretty high, so I climb the grill to remove them.
I scrub and rinse them clean, then sun-dry them for a while as I play with
Duke. The water pump next to the tap whirrs in five-minute intervals. An
airplane whizzes past, distinct across the clear blue sky.
With both troughs refilled with clean water and bird
pellets to the brim, I take them back to the eaves and hook them up carefully.
All this while Duke has been following me around. He doesn’t want to be left
out on anything. He watches as I climb down the grill, making sure both feet
touch the ground safely, instincts of a guard dog. Then he skips off to chase
some tiny bluebirds that are walking under the hedge. I walk back to the table
in the shed, feeling good about feeding the birds. The watermelon is crisp and
refreshing. I draft some pen on paper illustrations for a poem I’m writing.
Sketch, sketch, erase, sketch. Nice! Now it’s time for me to get back to
reading. Or maybe I should watch the birds for a few more minutes.
Gloria J is first year MFA candidate at FAU. Her works focus on pre-colonial Africa, lifestyle, health and environment. She’s also a book lover, photojournalist and illustrator. She loves to try new recipes, bird-watch and bask in the mid-morning sun.
