I was walking home after a morning jog and I saw them in the middle of the road.
Again.
Plovers aren't known for their intelligence.
Swooping? Yes. Loud calling when all else is quiet? Yes. Skinny legs? Yes. But street smarts? Nope. Not the plover.
I was reminded of this fact just this week.
See Mum and Dad, and their tiny, fluffy, ridiculously cute baby, have taken up residence right outside our home.
The road must be warm on these winter days. But their bodies are no match for the tonnes of metal, carried by massive rubber tyres that come hurtling along our street.
Mum and Dad can fly. But their baby, who looks only days old? Not a chance.
So when I rounded the corner, hearing the plover parents calling out warnings to other birds who were too close to their precious baby, I looked closely to see where the baby was.
To my dismay, it was on the road. Again.
Knowing they would swoop if I got too close, I cautiously approached. Initially, the nearest parent and baby moved away from me. But instead of crossing the road and taking up a safe spot in our across-the-road neighbour's garden, the tiny, fluffy baby stopped in the exact middle of the road.
The closer I got, the smaller the baby got, almost as if it was trying to disappear into the road to 'hide' from this big scary human (me).
The closer I got, the louder the parents got, eventually swooping me in an attempt to scare me away from their baby.
Out of fear for the baby's very fragile body, and knowing a car would come along any minute, I held my ground and discovered that a swooping plover is different from a swooping magpie.
The latter would have pecked me and probably done real damage, but the former swerved at the last minute so as to not run into me.
And still the tiny, fluffy, precious baby plover did not move.
I knew I had to get off the road. My plan had failed and I had to hope that if I moved away that Mum and Dad would have the sense to call their baby off the road.
To my relief, it worked. And it was in that moment that I realised these stupid birds had reminded me of an important lesson:
Sometimes, when we try to help, we only make things worse. And if we really care about helping someone (or something), we have to be willing to realise we were wrong and be brave (and humble) enough to change our plan.
There is no room for pride when we are truly wishing to help another. If our desire to help is actually born from a place of being seen as a 'good person' but we're unwilling to do something different when our 'wonderful solution' doesn't work, then it's a good sign we're doing it for the wrong reasons.
To truly be of service is to say, "I think I can help. Let me try. And if my solution doesn't work and you still want my help, let's try something different until we figure it out."
Let's release our attachment to being right and instead focus on being a useful, supportive human being.
Not the smartest animals in the world. But they still teach me a thing or two.