Birdies in the trees…
Hummingbirds electrify the air.
Mockingbirds fill the wind with rhythm.
Cardinals bring quiet reminders.
Yesterday, a lover lost.
Today, my grandmother I miss most.
Tomorrow, a hope that the red bird will return.
Birdies in the trees,
A song I wrote last spring.
Melodies carried away with the breeze.
Birdies in the trees.
Do you hear me?
Birdies in the trees, calling out to me.
I’m reminded of the crow.
Flying low, today.
The robins, their blue babies, the nest they’ve made.
Birdies in the trees, sing your songs.
I'm listening, and learning.
So I may sing along.
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Reflections on this song I wrote last year, I keep coming back to it time and time again. Just like the song I wrote about springtime, honeysuckle blooms and blackberries fresh off the vine. Words I arranged during a time I was so desperate to escape. I alchemized the earth and had sown all my sorrows into the zinnias, roses, hygrangeas. Now I stand in this garden that grows green today.
Life has been beautiful these days. I’ve met people who love me, who want to know me, and at the very least, wonder what I might have to say. I don’t seek relevance, nor do I crave importance. In honesty, I have one desire that overrides any ambition, and that is to be seen. I used to think I wanted to be understood, yet I am the sole proprietor of my own understanding. If I seek it in others, I’ll never hold it tightly enough within my self to propel me forward.
So I keep singing these songs. Over and over. Until the words I’ve written in ink act as resonant catalysts. My body: my soul, my heart, my mind, and voice. My body. Your body: your soul, heart, mind, and voice. I use mine as my own, and you use yours as your own. Freely, recklessly, intentionally.
Somehow, when we allow ourselves the freedom to be seen without being understood, connection creates harmony.
It is okay to speak to the birds, it’s better if you sing to them.
It is okay to use your own words, it’s better if you take the time to learn their melodies so they may sing back to you.
