And Still . . .

To A Hummingbird

Now here. Now there;
E’r posed somewhere
In sensuous air.
I only hear, I cannot see
The matchless winds that beareth thee.
Art thou some frenzied poet’s thought,
That God embodied and forgot?*

Alexander Posey
Muskoke Native American, poet, humorist and journalist politically involved in improving living conditions in Indian Territory.

Springtime has called me outside more frequently these days. Recently, I was sitting in the early morning just on the edge of the woods behind our house. My feet were bare on the ground, and while that was cool, it was also strong and solid.

The air was cool and moist, and the explosion of green was in full force around me sending subtle and not so subtle smells to my nose, sure signs that life was flowing through the trees and bushes that radiated all that color. In the midst of that, I saw a trillium blooming–same spot that it always does on the edge of the woods beneath a giant pine tree, year after year. 

Suddenly, I became aware of a particular bird’s call and song.  I didn’t recognize it, and it made me instantly curious about who this bird was and what it might look like. Just as quickly as I wondered about that bird and its song, I realized that there were half a dozen different birds singing their songs, too. 

A moment later, the rising sun in the east began to shine through some of those green tree branches, and it hit me in the face. Its warmth was welcome against the cool morning air. It was as if this whole orchestra of joy had been put on display for me in that moment.

I still live in a world where really horrible and disturbing things are being done in the name of our government. You don’t need me to make the list for you. We know what they are, and new things will be added to our knowledge, in the news, today. 

But my time outside that morning reminded me. I still live in a world where birds sing, mate, build nests, lay eggs and raise new birds who will sing for us next spring. I still live in a world where the sun still shines, trees still burst forth into blinding green colors. Tiny and not so tiny plants bring forth blooms. 

Both realities are true, the horror and the joy. I want to be open to the orchestra of joy as much if not more than I am to the dirge of destruction. I want to live my life, however long that is, choosing joy. 

And soon, the hummingbirds will arrive.

~Bob Patrick

*p. 372, When The Light Of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through, edited by Joy Harjo