Dear Miracle

Setting free the beautiful truth inside.


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Bird Talk and the Gift of Noticing

American-Robin-and-berries

“Waiting for my girlfriend”, he told me,

sitting there patiently on the rooftop.

He was quite the looker—for a Robin that is,

with his bright orange chest all stuck out,

all proud like, positioning himself for

the little beauty soon to arrive.

Right away he caught my attention as he sailed down from the sky, expertly landing on the edge of a neighbor’s roof. Settling in for a wait, he sat there, looking at me—he could feel my eyes boring holes through him, admiring his handsome beauty. That’s when he decided to strike up a short conversation with me. Anyway, he must have sensed I was kind of curious to know what he had to say for himself.

It was just about the time I happened to be leaning out the back porch door across the drive. A full bloom jasmine spring evening, everywhere birds were chattering in that wonderful kind of music they do—it was a full on orchestra playing. The dishes could wait. I couldn’t stand it a moment longer and made a beeline for the door to eavesdrop in on their conversation and enjoy the scarlet remnants of a setting sun. It’s mating season around here, and birds beginning to feather their nests, chattering from tree to tree, flying here and there. We humans seldom pay them any mind, so consumed by the frenetic pace of our lives, but this eve, I was listening.

I guess he thought he wasn’t close enough because he scooted himself over several feet to the very corner of the roof where we could get a better look at one another. I wondered if I was hearing him correctly or if I was just a silly human over-imagining things when he told me his girlfriend would soon be there. We humans can be quite dim when it comes to bird language, or for that matter, any other mother tongue of another.  We sat there staring at one another for a while until suddenly he whistled the most lilting little love tune. A moment later in response, the same love notes sang out from a distant tree. And a few minutes after that, here she came, a delicate little beauty, orange breasted, swooping in, landing on the ground, hopping around, checking out this thing and that.

Swooping down from his perch, they were both unexpectedly and quickly in front of me. He had brought her over to where I was to introduce me to his little sweetie. They pranced around at the bottom of the porch steps, hopping by the garden all happy and proud, keeping me in their line of sight all the while. They stayed a couple more minutes, taking off quickly in flight at first sight of an approaching car. I bade them farewell and happy nesting.

What a magnificent gift—this gift of noticing, slowing down long enough to listen to the larger conversation that is taking place in our everyday lives, to actively find where love lives, to see who and what is paying attention to us. It surprised me that in my witness of this magnificent nature being, I was noticed in return, a continuing affirmation I am always seen, a vital part of this whole beautiful mess called life—a realization that trumps the nightly news of war, disaster and nonstop pronouncements that the sky is falling any minute now. Life goes on out there in the world, up there in the sky, creating and recreating itself over and over again when and where you think it never could. The funny thing about love, it’s always there waiting for you somewhere. Paying attention, as I sometimes forget to do, can definitely help. You find love in the unlikeliest of places, the most unexpected, too.

Tomorrow, just as an experiment, determine to notice where the love is in your life. Notice the little acts of kindness that cross your path. Notice the people that pay attention. See who is begging for love or in need of witness. Notice the natural world around you waiting to be seen, even longing to bend down and share its secrets with you, its praise songs that ring from tree to tree and star to star even when no one is listening

In any event, I have it on good authority that the sky is not falling, not today or tomorrow or ever. There’s still plenty of love holding it all together, being born everywhere, no matter how it looks to the human eye. How do I know? A little birdie told me.

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Like This When the Telephone Rings

I wrote this a short while ago, just before the Boston Marathon Bombing, not knowing exactly why or what it was for–it was what came through, what wrote itself.

boston-marathon-explosion-bombs

There is no knocking,

this dark stranger of disbelief, of incivility

who, without warning, arrives

at your door, shouldering past, coming in.

Some wild force of nature, a hammer—

you never could have predicted (although there were signs),

you crumble.

And everything gives at once—porch chimes,

trash cans, the roof, your life,

what’s not nailed down.

A wild plethora of Dogwood petals in pink set free,

fly past, slam to the ground.

A grief presaged

in blossoms

unleashed, their splendor still intact

in the rubble of what’s left.

Grace and grief together, an annihilation,

yet to be understood.

Loss can come at you like this when

the telephone rings.

 © 2013  ~  S. Wolfington


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Nocturne

biplane-fllying-into-sun-copy2.jpgAfter fire has burnt down your house,

the old skin of imperfection doesn’t seem

so terrible anymore.

There are worse things than that and

as watersheds go,

you’ve lived through them all—

you endure, you’ve learned

each brings a mercy of its own.

Now there are bones and memories that creak—

the crashing footfall of youth exhausted,

its intoxicant flush tamed,

solidity spent, traded in

for more sophisticated sensibilities.

Accustomed to imperfection,

light streams through its cracks and holes as

you walk weightless now

in upward, ever widening spirals

freeing yourself towards heaven.

2012 ~ S. Wolfington