Can you hear them?

This early in the morning, can you hear the constant tweet and chatter of maybe a single bird, maybe a back-and-forth call of love, outside my open window?

It’s still dark, as we close in on fall, 5 a.m. to be exact, and all I hear as I run the water, smooth my hair, pull on clothes and sweeten the silence is the call of the birds.

It is a perfect and beautiful poem this early in the morning, and if it were any later in the day, with the hustle of the family, the to-dos and checking-offs, I bet I wouldn’t even hear it.

It’s so loud and clear and confident and full that I feel like all of you, reading this, can hear it, too. Doesn’t matter if you live nearby or even in the same time zone. This beautiful, knowing call, from the core of its being, doing what it is supposed to do, what nature calls it to do, what it was born for, it’s a universal song.

Needs no words, nor explanation. No understanding or interpretation.

It’s a simple song, really, becomes it comes from deep within.

We people, we complicate things immensely. We need purpose and drive, meaning and depth.

We need others to understand us and feel our pain. We first-worlders, we revel in our pain – oh woe is me, look at how difficult my life.

Are you swimming in shit? Is your water contaminated? Is there food on your table reliably, and abundant?

Then don’t tell me you have problems.

Our biggest problem, we humans, is that we don’t quiet enough to listen to the call of the heart.

We think so much about the path we’re on – or the one we should be on, or someone else’s path – that we don’t stop to just BE.

These moments, they’re fleeting. The early morning only lasts so long.

People waken, pull back the blankets, descend on the carpeted stairs toward embraces and coffee mugs and music in the kitchen and places to be.

There will be phone calls and errands to run, gas to fill into the car, money to pull from the bank. There will be hassles and arguments, people to hire and people to fire and friends who disappear into the ether of their own dramas only to re-emerge into the sunlight to clink glasses and string long, winding tales.

So this time, this early morning, this beautiful quiet birdsong, it’s such a gift.

Something to stop and listen to. Not to think. Just to let it seep into your soul.

Let the fingers of this melody intertwine with the strings of your being, from the core of your essence to the top of your head, to the feet that keep you aground.

Breathe it in. Close your eyes and notice that the color there is the same as the darkness outside, which is already lightening with fingers of sunlight behind the trees pinking and orange-ing awake.

Keep it close until it’s truly gone. Breathe the melody. Taste the harmony. Savor the natural doing that emanates from the heart of the bird, who flies when it needs lift, lands when it needs rest, pecks at nourishment when the time is right and nurtures its young like every living thing.

Only then can you know, from the depths of your soul, that we are all one, connected in the web of this life, toward greater purpose than you ever thought possible.

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