07/27/2026
A wounded bird came to us today at work at Bad Apple Brewing Company . We tried to help, but it passed before we could get it to safety. So we did the only other thing we could do: we dug a small hole out back and buried it with lavender and hollyhock, tucked right in, close.
We stood there for a moment. No words. Just presence.
I think this is what ritual is for. Not to change the outcome, but to mark that something has passed, that a transition has happened and deserves to be witnessed rather than stepped over. Death is part of all our lives, human and otherwise, and so often we rush past it, especially when it’s small, or brief, or not officially ours to grieve. But when we let ourselves pause, even for a creature we never knew, something in us expands. We practice tenderness as a discipline, not just a feeling that shows up when it’s convenient.
Ritual doesn’t need to be elaborate or understood by anyone else. It just needs to be honest. A held moment. Some flowers. A small grave dug with care. That’s enough to hold both the bird and ourselves.
Rest easy, little one.
