The Gift of the Birds

I rise early this morning and pass by the running clothes I had placed on the dresser late last night. In the darkness, I make a quick decision and instead of dressing to run, I shower and dress for the day. As a soft golden glow begins to fill the air around me, I pour a cup of coffee and step outside.  I swat at the thoughts, you should be running or you should be working.

Breathe, I tell myself instead. Breathe.

This week I turned my calendar to August and see words everywhere. Bold letters, time slots, appointments, circled dates, the first day of school, musts, need-to’s, have-to’s, soccer, soccer, soccer. The feeling begins to rise inside–overwhelming feelings of the passage of time, the keeping up, the too much.

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I flash back to the summer days of long ago. Days when the kids and I meandered around the neighborhood in the golden morning light. Days when we waded into creeks and felt the cool water touch our warm legs. The mornings of exploring and adventuring and picnics in the yard. Each day was an adventure to unveil. What do you want to do this morning? was the beginning of every day. A park? A creek? A bike ride? A traipse through the woods? Everyday adventures were the survival of the long days with tiny people.

The days no longer feel long.

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The days have changed now. The adventures are different. Now friends are invited over and kids disappear. I hear laughter from the trampoline, the basement, the front yard. Instead of loading into the car for an adventure, we load into the car for a practice, a drop off at a friends, a task that needs to be done. The day often begins, What do we have to do today? We are running, running, running.

At the end of the day it’s all a blur. A whirl-wind. What did we do today? Where did the time go?

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The sun is peeking over the horizon now. The dogs begin to bark from the window behind me. I look up and see a neighbor walking up the road. I shoot a look at the dogs, willing them to be silent–not to wake the kids. I watch as the neighbor disappears into the fog up our road. The dogs quiet and I hear no feet hitting the ground from upstairs. All is silent now.

In the silence I hear the birds. I think there must be hundreds of them. A chorus of music fills the air. Different tones, different tunes. When I close my eyes it’s almost deafening. I wonder, were the songs there five minutes ago? Did the birds just appear?

I know that isn’t the case. The birds have been there all along–I just didn’t hear them.

I can’t help but wonder how often I miss the most important things–the songs of the moment, the words of today, the incredible gifts in front of me–because I’m too busy rushing to the next thing or longing for the thing that used to be? It strikes me, as I listen to the chorus of the birds, that there is so much goodness, right here, right now.

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There is a hummingbird that perches on a branch behind our house. We have claimed her (him?) as our own. At almost any time during the day, we can glance out our back window and see her sitting, high on her branch, soaking in her surroundings. Watching us, I think. In a moment she takes off and her wings carry her faster than we can follow and before we know it, she is back again. She sits and watches. The tree is hers and it is ours. She is ours and we are hers. Why is she sitting there? the kids ask me. I think she chose us, I say. The wind blows and the branch shakes. She is steady, though. Watching, remaining.

I am fascinated by our hummingbird. Why she sits so often. I read and learn that some hummingbirds can fly up to 33 mph. Their wings can flap from 720 to 5400 times per minute. I learn that a hummingbirds wing beats take so much energy that they spend much of their time resting on branches and twigs.

I wonder, if perhaps, I was a hummingbird in another life?

There is much to learn from our bird, I think. The resting between the going. The slowing down between the running. Life, especially life with little humans, doesn’t offer that easily. Slowing down isn’t natural. This morning, though, I am reminded that it is worth it. That there are many gifts in slowing down and breathing in a moment. Closing my eyes, even for a moment, helps me to see, hear.

Ah, the ministry of the birds. . .

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I hear little feet behind me now. Soccer practice looms. The rest is over for now, but I still hear the birds. . .