I Am a Goldfinch on a Pine Branch

As a transplant to the glorious Northwoods of Wisconsin, I haven't forgotten my roots.

© 4Me2Design, Pixabay

I always pull my blinds up as I work - though it's distracting. I live in an extremely comfortable modern apartment complex with immaculate landscaping, massive units (each of which comes with a garage), and an exceptional management staff. But the best part: my building is surrounded on three sides by forest. And right out the window of my office - where I write and work - it's a menagerie of little birds, constantly flitting back and forth. At least, in the warm months.

The type of bird seems to vary from summer to summer. This year, it's all about the finches. Including bright yellow goldfinches ... the state bird of my home state of Iowa. The Northwoods is dominated by conifers - red pine (my favorite), white pine, balsam fir, and more. The woods outside my window, however, are mostly hardwoods - except for one large pine tree.

Home. © TH Figg 2024

I've been seeing the goldfinches out my window for a few weeks now; but today, as the rain began to lessen and the birds emerged from their nests, I saw a single yellow goldfinch on a pine tree branch. And suddenly, I felt seen.

I was born in Nebraska, but my family moved to Iowa when I was seven (well, almost eight). So I grew up there - first on a small acreage just outside the Cedar Rapids metro area, and then in the country further north. My dad was a true Iowan - born in Council Bluffs and having graduated from Iowa State University. I myself remained in Iowa for decades and graduated from the University of Iowa (at least, for my undergrad).

So for over thirty years, I was an Iowan. I cheered for the Hawkeyes, I wore black and gold, I listed corn on the cob and pork tenderloin as my favorite dishes. But deep down - I wanted out. I'd hardly known anything but Iowa. I wanted something more. Deep in my soul I longed for woods and water, although it was hard for me to even understand what I was searching for. In my early twenties I'd take solo road trips, searching for - I didn't know.

Maple Lake © TH Figg 2024

Then I came to northern Wisconsin.

Well. I fled to northern Wisconsin. But that's another story. I initially drove up for a planned three-day visit - a quiet motel in the woods of a small town, a moment to breathe after leaving an extremely abusive 15-year relationship, a visit with an old friend. A chance to gather my thoughts and plan my next steps.

Like most battered women who finally get out (the few of us who do), I was utterly frazzled. Terrified of everything. Without most of my/our belongings - my kids and I had gotten out with little more than the clothes on our backs. I was grieving the end of a marriage, despite how horrible things had become. I was lost.

But beyond that ... I was still searching for all the things I'd never found. And when I arrived in the Northwoods, I found it. All of it. Everything. The missing piece clicked into place. I found where I belonged - among the deep woods with the thick carpets of red-brown needles. The quiet lakes, still as glass as twilight and haunted by loon calls. The winding trails thick with brush and deer. The quaint touristy downtowns and friendly locals. It was a different world - one that felt like home to me.

Forest County ridge © TH Figg 2024

So - after long talks with my kids - I decided to stay in Wisconsin. It felt safe. My abusive ex didn't know where I was and his threats of finding us and "making me sorry" fell flat as long as I could hide. (He would eventually find us. My location was revealed by my own toxic family members, which soon caused me to cut them out of my life for endangering my children. As any sane mother would do.)

Back to the goldfinch on a pine branch. That's me. An Iowa transplant - which isn't rare up here, oddly, as my own pastor is a Hawkeye. The bright yellow bird, a sign of my old home, perched on the kind of tree that proliferates up here. It's not denying where I'm from; it's embracing where I'm going.

May 2024, Tara Helen Figg