A Facebook friend mentioned a writing exercise he has so far failed to adopt - to write fifteen sentences first thing upon waking every morning. That sounded like something worth trying, and so I am here this morning.
The morning is green, chilly and wet. There's a Nuthatch darting back and forth between the feeder and a tree outside the slider. I didn't sleep well because of a dinner comprised primarily of cheese which is unwise when you have become lactose intolerant in middle age. A Northern Cardinal arrives, a blur of red and a single distinct clipped note. Yesterday, there was a Paliated Woodpecker announcing himself and knocking on the trees. I'm remembering the time she summoned one.
"I want to see a Paliated Woodpecker", she said, as simply as that. In a matter of minutes we heard one laughing like Woody Woodpecker, and it appeared for us on the other side of the screen. We watched, amazed and laughing, because it wasn't the first miracle we had witnessed together involving birds. This confirmed for me my notion that birds are actually Angels, and that something special was happening between us. As I write this now, a song comes up on a playlist I didn't create, the immediately recognizable signature slow-tempo and saxophone. It was sacred music to us then, or so I imagined, played only in candlelight. This is more than I want to remember this morning, but the visitation comes anyway bringing awe and pain. I say good morning to both.
It's good to feel. It's good to still be able to feel something. And to see Angels.
The morning is green, chilly and wet. There's a Nuthatch darting back and forth between the feeder and a tree outside the slider. I didn't sleep well because of a dinner comprised primarily of cheese which is unwise when you have become lactose intolerant in middle age. A Northern Cardinal arrives, a blur of red and a single distinct clipped note. Yesterday, there was a Paliated Woodpecker announcing himself and knocking on the trees. I'm remembering the time she summoned one.
"I want to see a Paliated Woodpecker", she said, as simply as that. In a matter of minutes we heard one laughing like Woody Woodpecker, and it appeared for us on the other side of the screen. We watched, amazed and laughing, because it wasn't the first miracle we had witnessed together involving birds. This confirmed for me my notion that birds are actually Angels, and that something special was happening between us. As I write this now, a song comes up on a playlist I didn't create, the immediately recognizable signature slow-tempo and saxophone. It was sacred music to us then, or so I imagined, played only in candlelight. This is more than I want to remember this morning, but the visitation comes anyway bringing awe and pain. I say good morning to both.
It's good to feel. It's good to still be able to feel something. And to see Angels.
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