For some inexplicable reason, at 31 degrees and in my
pajamas, I suddenly abandoned my journal and pen to go outside. Once out there, 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. A jay landed on the fence, mouth propped open with an acorn; red-adorned finches glowed in the strong morning light. The auburn and green buds on the trees and bushes all but waved me down. Once again, Nature brought me back into alignment with what really matters. Writing by hand healed me this morning; Waxwing restored me to blessed wholeness, attentive wakefulness, and a willingness to remain long enough to see the cornucopia of living beauty just outside my door.
All blog images created and/or photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
