Arts Blog by Sabra Comins

April 2026

When a black-capped chickadee flew into view wearing a white cap, I knew my sensory data collection needed replenishing.  I strained to see the white head flitting in and out of the hydrangea.  Was the light’s reflection masking the familiar black cap?  

It’s not surprising at this time of year that my reservoir of sounds, sights, and emotions from being outside is low.  As nature bursts into spring and warming days invite longer moments of stillness outside, my senses are on high alert.

I watched for the chickadee’s white cap to turn black as it hopped about changing its orientation to the sun.  Instead, more white appeared on its back, cloaking the bird in a white cape.  Could it be some kind of superhero chickadee?  

I am intrigued by the influence of perspective as I read Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book, The Serviceberry.  I love how she describes the deliciousness of the berries and gift economies.  She considers an economic model for the serviceberry that is based on reciprocity rather than accumulation, a system where “all flourishing is mutual.”  In times of abundance, the tree saves what it needs to grow and then gives resources to pollinators who in turn pollinate, and later to birds who distribute berry seeds.  This reciprocal exchange is vital to the serviceberry’s survival.   

Imagining a gift economy in nature – where there’s no money – is easier than in our corporate economy.  We don’t expect beavers at Bald Hill to thank us for installing a specially designed fence that allows them to build in their chosen location; it just feels like the right thing to do. 

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“To name the world as gift is to feel your membership in the web of reciprocity.  It makes you happy – and it makes you accountable,” Kimmerer says.  I want to live in a web of reciprocity, too.  The chickadee’s visit feels like a gift bringing the reminder of summer’s imminence and a cheery call of chick-a-dee-dee-dee.  I also relish the spark of curiosity I feel when I pause to observe.

Seeing vibrant feathers on the western bluebird also feels like a gift.  It is hard to believe that blue feathers are not truly blue, but instead an optical illusion.  We see blue feathers as blue because of structural aspects in the barbs of feathers that scatter blue light.  This phenomenon is lost with back-lighting because light is no longer being reflected back and the pigment color, brown, shows up.  Grinding up a blue feather will leave a brown powder while grinding up a red feather, which is colored by pigment, will yield a red powder.

I feel a responsibility in receiving these songbird gifts and I immediately want to repay them.  Planting a serviceberry could be a gift to a chickadee, but the elusive gift pathway of joy and wonder is hard to follow among recipients.  When I’m attentive, I can catch some of these emotions and awe, and feel propelled along a kinder path.

When I exhale, I don’t consider how my breath mingles with a serviceberry, bluebird, or steam rising from a river.  In fact, I don’t usually think of it at all as it ventures out along its way.  Perhaps, this is the best way to consider the movement of joy as it mingles with and among all living beings and entities of earth and plays a vital role not easily defined.    

Art works this way, too, and often has an invisible, untraceable influence on viewers.  When artwork elicits a sigh, chuckle, or tear, how does that gift circulate?  With a superhero chickadee nearby and Kimmerer’s words of “all flourishing is mutual,” I feel a shift in myself that acknowledges a showering of gifts from nature and art.

In building my web of reciprocity, I look forward to the upcoming gifts of hearing authors read of their entanglements with nature at Spring Creek Project’s Earth Words; of masquerading as an animal for the Procession of the Species Nature Parade at Planet Palooza; and of discovering where pockets full of delight from the buzzing of bumble bees will lead me. 

Inspired by blue feathers and gift economy notions, my studio project invitation this month is to make an ephemeral piece of art after recognizing three gifts I’ve received.  These gifts may be as simple as a smile from a stranger, the warmth of sunshine on my face, or the fluttering of a passing butterfly.  With these gifts in mind, I’ll make an orb with last year’s plant growth – one for each gift I received – and place them outside to see how they shift over time.  I wonder how they might become a gift or optical illusion to another.

In Reciprocity,

Sabra

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