A quiet cooing is all that hints that the miracles of St. Caladrius hospital are hard at work today. 

     The stonework of the church turned hospital is of the ornate Gothic kind - the kind intended to instil awe by sheer grandeur. But like a living thing, the years have humbled it. It's grand arches are feathered with ivy, their sharply carved features worn soft by rain and hard weather. It's limestone walls, once white and austere, are clothed now, grey and green, with lichen and moss that mark its many years of service. The lofty towers, once lording it over all, have been overhung by the very trees they once dwarfed. The grandeur is gone - but this new visage, quietly submissive to the powers of nature that have swirled around it, seems to suit it better. 

     But, as I said at first, it is the cooing that floats from the stone windows that tells of the work within.

     Winding through the light-dappled passages, one finds oneself in a large hall. This was once the chapel, with rows of pews for worshipers to fill. Now rows of beds await the sick. The church has become a refuge for those who are beyond the hope of other medicines. And it's all to do with the birds.

     Caladrius - a large bird, downy white. This is why the sick have gathered here. The birds, a flock of about 30 of them in all, are free to roam in the sick room. Some sit in the windows, taking in the sun, others roost on perches placed between the beds. But most are at their posts, sitting on the beds of the ailing, wings spread over them like blankets of snow. They are not trained to do this, it is their natural behavior. No one knows why the birds favor the sick, why they softly coo for the suffering or spread their wings over the feverish. But there are many speculations as to what they are doing.

     "If the birds look into a patient's eyes, it means they can be healed," a fellow visitor whispers excitedly as we tour the sick room, "if they look away, then there's no hope. When they spread their wings like that, they take the sickness into their own bodies. Then they fly to the sun, where the sickness is burned away."

     That is the story, as it stands. The birds are miraculous, and their appearance was equally so. Twelve years ago, during a terrible storm, the sisters of the church came out to find a flock of pure white birds on the lawn, grounded by the violent winds. They took them in, sheltering them from the continuing rain, expecting them to fly away when the skies cleared - but they never did. No one could identify their type, nor where they came from. Rumor spread that they were the legendary Caladrius, a bird rumored from medieval days to possess healing powers. The sick were brought to the church, first from the surrounding towns, then from around the country, now from around the world. The church was converted to a full-time hospital several years ago to handle to influx of the sick.

     When I get a moment alone with my guide, Sister Miranda - one of the original sisters who witnessed the birds coming - I ask her how the coming of the birds, and the change from church to hospital, has effected her.

     "It's the same work," she answers practically, "the only difference is where the hurt is. And don't think the birds do all the work. We do plenty. We've done all we can to prepare ourselves to serve the ones that come here."

    Her slightly snarky reply leads me to ask her what her take on the bird's supposedly miraculous abilities is. I am surprised by the confidence of her answer:

     "I absolutely believe that they have the power to heal. That they are miraculous. But perhaps not in the way people think. Do they take people's sickness by some supernatural power? Can they heal in that way? Probably not. But hope is one of the best medicines there is, and that they give in abundance. The legend is that these birds will not even look at a patient who's beyond recovery - but I've yet to meet a patient who the birds did not take to. 

     People are complicated, animals are simple. People may not believe what we tell them - we can tell them that there's hope, that things can get better - but they'll think that we're hiding the truth from them or just being nice. Too many of these people come here having been told there is no hope and they believed that. But animals don't lie. If the birds believe that these patients can get better, that's enough for them. They believe it too. That's a miracle, if you're asking me. As good as any."

     I cannot think of a better answer myself. Though it is my job to root out the truth behind every controversy, I am content to leave this one be. I see the faces of the sick here, awash with peace from the attentions of a simple bird. Whether their powers are supernatural in nature or not, I agree with sister Miranda: they're as good as any miracle I've seen.

Seahorses on Parade

   May I make a confession?

      I have not always wanted to be a researcher. No, I have not always delved the depths of the sea in search of mysteries and the depths of libraries in search of knowledge. When I was very young I had but one special wish:

     I wished to be a beauty queen and to ride a seahorse in a parade. 

     And today that wish came true.

     Now before you erudites turn the page in intellectual disgust, let me assure you, my flight of fancy was in the name of research - I have not forsaken my life's work for a tiara and a pony - it's simple kismet that the two spheres have finally collided.

     Nearly 25 years ago (has it really been that long?) my mother took me and my sisters to Manza Bay – it was a long trip from our home in Samoan waters, and I’m afraid we complained unrelentingly, but when we got there we were met with such a bevy of delights that our eyes could not grow wide enough to take them all in. swirls and stripes of pinks and oranges, coral splashes on whisping fins, deep blues with starry spots and every shade of green and yellow like waves of new kelp across the ocean floor: thousands of the world’s most beautiful hippocampi, and their equally glamorous riders, gathered for the annual Parade of Seahorses in the humble bay of Manza.

     From that moment I was transfixed. And last month, 25 years after that childhood fancy took root in my heart, having attained the less glamorous, but no less desired dream of becoming a research journalist, I got a call asking me to return as a special guest – to join in the parade and – yes - even to participate in the beauty contest as an honorary contestant. What could I do? I said yes!

    Originally conceived as a sort of show-and-tell for local seahorse breeders to brag about their newest stock, the event quickly drew gawkers from far and wide. And there's no question as to why. The Stellar Seahorse - an offshoot of the common workaday hippocampus - has been bred for thousands of years to a single purpose: Eye candy. Pinks and oranges, yellows and greens, seahorses of every size, shape, and color glitter in the light of the bay. They fill the air with gasps of joy and wonder as they flutter by on their shimmering, fairy-like fins.

     I had one of my own for the day – a frisky yellow seahorse flecked with coral-red spots. His name was Hibiscus and he, as well as a matching crimson gown and my very own seashell tiara, were gifts from the Pageant Coordinator, Mahiri Sarr.

     “Shameless bribes,” she joked when she showed them to me, “we can’t have a scathing article giving us bad press!”

     If they are bribes, I accept them - judge me if you must. Like many beauty pageants and breeder shows, the Parade of Seahorses has had its share of scrutiny. Many believe that the selective breeding of hippocampi for beauty leads to bad husbandry practices and unhealthy bloodlines. But the pageant has strict regulations on breeders and the health and viability of the animals is a key factor in their judging.

 

     But today I was too swept up to worry about such controversies. As I waited for the festivities to begin in the technicolored crowd of seahorses and riders – floating there like living parade floats – I was filled with pure joy at the breathtaking display of natural beauty. It is mind boggling to me to imagine how such intricate patterns of color, phosphorescence, and luminosity have come about in nature. Human hands labor and strive to bring beauty about – weaving it in cloth and penning it to paper, yet these carefree beasts simply grow into it without effort or thought. But before my mind could wonder further, the parade had begun and I was whisked away in a blur of cheerful participants.

     It may sadden you to know that I did not become Miss Seahorse: 2014 and my faithful mount, Hibiscus, did not take Best-in-Show - but it does not sadden me. Miss Hanumi Sibale took that honor, and deserved every bit of it. She, too, was a first time participant and, in her victory speech, she told of a time as a child when she dreamed of this day – a dream that we shared and that I’m happy to have lived vicariously through her.

     So you have suffered through my bought of childhood wish-fulfillment, and I thank you for your indulgence. Now that all my dreams have come true I have need of a new set of wishes, haven’t I? I don’t know what those shall be, but I am excited to find them out.