Nectar feeders hang outside the screened porch at my sister-in-law's house in Ann Arbor. On a sunny day, you can sip a drink and watch lots of ruby-throated hummingbirds zip in to refuel, then buzz away to perch in a massive evergreen across the driveway. One name for a flock of hummingbirds is a "bouquet." Here you can see a bouquet of hummingbirds all summer long from the comfort of a wicker chair.
At my house, if you happen by a certain window at the right, random moment in early morning or before dusk, you have one chance in 500 of catching a glimpse of a lone female taking a quick drink at my feeder. If she sees you watching her, she's gone. You can stare at the feeder until you start thinking that the nectar is actually evaporating right through the glass, but no matter. That bird will not be back while you're watching.
Over the decades that I've been trying to attract hummingbirds to my yard, they have mostly not shown up at all. Occasionally, one teases me with a brief visit. Once in late summer, well after I'd given up and put away the feeder, a hummingbird visited for a few days, trying to draw nectar from bulbs on some Christmas lights I hadn't bothered taking down. I put the feeder up again. That was the bird's cue to leave.
I've thrown away gallons of unconsumed nectar, tried various feeder designs, placed them in different locations. Did the nectar go bad? I'd dump it and refill. Did I mix it wrong? I'd buy the pre-mixed stuff. One year I planted bee balm — a supposedly sure-fire approach. The bee balm was dead by Labor Day, and no hummingbirds ever appeared. It was hard not to take it personally.
The amount of wheel-spinning, hand-wringing and fruitless striving I've done in the hope of luring a hummingbird for the season surprises even me, although it should not.
When I was a teenager, all I wanted was a boyfriend. The harder I wanted one, the more elusive he was. The more elusive he was, the harder I thought about how to crack the code. How could I fix myself? How could I become a girlfriend-type girl? I burned a lot of calories obsessing about my deficits, and trying to remedy them; Glamour magazine was a lot less useful in this effort than you might think.
It all just made me hungry.
Eventually, grace — not strategy, fretting or wheel-spinning — delivered me a boyfriend. But it did not deliver me from striving, and I suspect I have a lot of company. We humans are a strive-ish tribe, aren't we?
Writer Arthur C. Brooks addresses this obliquely in "Strength to Strength: Finding Success, Happiness and Deep Purpose in the Second Half of Life." The book is written mostly for extreme A-listers of every industry whose focus on achievements can become problematic later in life. It is inevitable that we lose professional relevance as we age, Brooks writes. But we can learn to gracefully cede the spotlight to new generations and find different, more rewarding ways to measure our worth.
Despite its orientation toward top achievers, the book has something to offer the rest of us mere mortals as well. This includes anyone who suspects the phrase "middle-age" no longer describes them as accurately as it used to. It also applies to those of us who wish we'd accomplished more, left an indelible mark or been recognized as, in some way, special. ("Special," as Brooks points out, doesn't have nearly the shelf life we think it has.)
What struck me after reading "Strength to Strength" was that I'd spent my entire adult life hoping to achieve one thing or another, occasionally striking gold and sometimes striking out. The wanting-and-striving cycle became a habit it had never occurred to me to quit. Long past what Don Lemon would consider my "peak" years, I continued to want and wish and covet and strive with the best of them.
I am tired of such struggle.
What would it be like to stop? I have started to wonder this. I am not interested in checking out, or ceasing meaningful endeavors, but I think it's time to quit breathlessly chasing some worthier version of myself so as to attract the brass ring du jour. Over the decades, I have strived for social clout, acclaim, thinness, coveted jobs or projects, big love, the approval of my heroes, and yes — "specialness." I've read Wayne Dyer from the "Your Erroneous Zones" days to his late mystical stuff, all in hopes of winning gifts from the universe.
I could go on. Maybe you could, too. But must we?
At a certain age — let's say 62, for the sake of argument — one can't help noticing that there's a difference between grasping for what we covet and investing in the stuff with real value: people we love, communities we share, and meaningful work or service. Chasing has such a low return on investment, if you ask me.
Life has a way of delivering the goods when we're not oozing desperation. Make fun of Kenny Loggins all you want, but he wrote a whole song about this phenomenon in 1978 called "Wait a Little While," and it is perfect.
More to the point, though, there comes a season for learning to detach a bit from the goods themselves. Less hoping to have what we want, and more wanting what we have, as the saying goes.
Back on my deck, I haven't seen my hummingbird in about four days. I plan to keep the feeder filled with nectar all summer just the same. If the bird shows up again, I'll get my hummingbird fix. If she doesn't, I'll get to watch my aging, lucky, unremarkable, semi-special self learning to let the world spin.