By Dzvinia Orlowsky
In 2020 I would have believed
the red bird anchoring itself on the lowest
branch of the slumping lilac bush
in early March came to show me that bright
beauty exists where you least expect it,
that I still had time to see, fear-
free, a coastline of breath to be inhaled
and exhaled deeply, to rush through my nightly
prayers in Ukrainian as if I had an “in”
with God, both of us in agreement:
який безлад! What a mess!, God in
an over-sized coat, looking for his hat,
me in a red flapper dress, black-fringed
and silver-sequenced like a body of water
taking shape—iron, reeds, stars.
Now there is no window to look out from
where the eye doesn’t skim silence—
a dormant field’s name tag of black stubble,
trees that wandered out from huge darkness
forgetting important IDs and documents
left behind on some metal table. What do they
sound like to us— really—these explosions
that come through our TVs, that taught fire
to scream in 2022, screams that caught
fire? We have words but have lost
the warmth of flesh. In the day’s last trace,
the bird that flew onto my branch
may have mistaken our house for another.
Or not knowing in which direction
it was meant to fly, mistook our grey shingles
for woodland doors, our round rock
garden as the halo it’d been promised
in bird dreams
in bird prayer
red feathered, black beaked.
The Importance of Arts, Culture & The Creative Process
The arts, culture, and the creative process are deeply intertwined, offering us the freedom to communicate on a profound level—not only with others but within ourselves. Through creative expression, we engage in a process of discovery that fosters both personal healing and a greater appreciation for the journeys of others.
At its core, artistic engagement promotes acceptance and respect, recognizing both our shared humanity and the unique perspectives shaped by race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, socio-economic status, physical abilities, religious beliefs, and ideologies. By embracing these differences, we acknowledge the richness of cultural diversity rather than erasing it.
The arts and humanities, at their most powerful, are an act of generosity and optimism. They assume that—even in a fractured world—mutual understanding remains possible.
What was the inspiration for your creative work?
On a winter day, weighed down by the third anniversary of Russia’s war on Ukraine and the crisis in Gaza, I spotted a red bird alight on a bare lilac branch. Its bright beauty offered a fleeting reprieve, a moment of gratitude. I wanted to believe, as Emerson suggests in Woods: A Prose Sonnet, that communion with nature could restore me—that as long as I could find solace there, I would be alright. But then I thought: we take nature for granted, exploit its gifts. One day, if not already, it may not be there to comfort us. Perhaps the natural world, too, needs reassurance. Perhaps the bird itself was lost, in need of its own blessing. That thought prompted my poem and led me to see from a different point of view.
Tell us something about the natural world that you love and don’t wish to lose. What are your thoughts on the kind of world we are leaving for the next generation?
Some of my most cherished memories of the natural world come from my childhood and young adulthood in rural Brunswick, Ohio, where I wandered the ten acres of meadow behind our house. I was often accompanied by up to seven dogs—mostly strays my mother took in. The meadow, alive with wild daisies and patches of strawberries, was a place of wonder. I loved going barefoot, feeling the cool morning dew brush my ankles. On windy days, especially before a storm, the tall grass rippled like pale green and silver silk, and the dogs leaped through it—smaller ones standing on their hind legs to see above the swaying waves.
As a child, I longed to fly. Stretching my arms wide in that meadow, eyes closed against the wind, I almost believed I could.
After my father passed, we relocated to the Boston area. The meadow has long since been paved over for housing. I wish those families happiness in their homes, but the loss lingers.
With climate change, pollution, and a world increasingly consumed by digital screens, I fear fewer people will form deep, personal connections with nature. Too often, it is seen as something to be feared or conquered, rather than cherished.
In our daily lives, my husband and I strive to live sustainably:
• We make our home in a modest 1700s Cape and rely on a wood-burning stove for winter warmth.
• In summer, instead of running air conditioning, we cool off with ocean swims or quick showers, using AC only in our bedroom at night.
• We prioritize plant-based foods and minimize food waste, often sharing meals when dining out to counter oversized portions.
• We avoid plastic, recycle diligently, and support political policies that protect the environment.
These are small actions, but mindfulness matters. The more we nurture our connection to the natural world, the better we can preserve it for future generations.
