Very early this morning I was trying to conjure a metaphor. I wrote about rivers: how the surface water moves more rapidly than the water at depth. The trivial annoyances of daily life float along the surface; that which sustains Life, that which lends stability to existence, that which calls us back into harmony with Nature, is found closer to the bottom of the river, flows deeply, just skimming the fecund, rich river bed. When I am feeling agitated or unsettled, this is what I do. I write so that I can re-member what is abiding and meaningful, so that I can move back to my own center.
For some inexplicable reason, at 31 degrees and in my pajamas, I suddenly abandoned my journal and pen to go outside. I heard two simultaneous and atypical sounds. The first was a small dry repetitive sound…like raindrops devoid of water, like tiny twigs being snapped in half. The other sound was a light thin one…not a whistle, not a cheep, but very high pitched; it came in a chorale of voices. Both sounds descended from high overhead – the first, in the backyard, the second, from the front yard.
I stood underneath the tree in the back, realizing that birds were rapidly plucking something that caused debris to fall. The branches are covered with clustered berries, a deep gray blue. I looked through my binoculars at the barren limbs of the ash tree in the front and saw dozens of birds. Thinking the color was a deception of light, I nonetheless saw yellow, reddish orange, and very pronounced black bars. For a very, very long moment I stared at those perched birds, waiting for them to tell me who they were. A single bird high in the tree turned his head and I caught a glimpse of the crest and that distinctive black mask. With silence and rapt attention, gaze fixed on the beautiful smooth bodies of these gently singing guys, I heard myself say: waxwings! I confirmed this by stepping into my office to check out the field guide.
I watched. I watched as the cedar waxwings in my backyard held the berries in their bills for just a moment before maneuvering them down their throats. I watched as the flock in the ash moved, repositioned, flew back and forth to the berry-laden tree. And in the short while I spent, slippers and jammies insufficient protection against the frigid air, my heart melted with love and unbounded joy. I could no longer remember what had felt so caustic, what I had struggled to assuage with my river metaphor writing just minutes before.
Once again, Nature brought me back into alignment with what really matters. Writing healed me this morning; Waxwing restored me to blessed wholeness.
(Orig. posted in 2014.)
