The breeze is subtle this morning, and the lilac flowers are tall, iridescent columns. They glow when the sun touches them a certain way—a mutual offering.
Now the lone egret glides over the retired grass, and the chimes softly tinkle.
A blue jay emerged from the pines only to disappear again.
There is a dog barking urgently in the distance while the nearby birds chirp and tweet and call, “Hear,” and “Hear.” I wonder to what they’re calling our attention. The cats seem to be ignoring them, and the dog has stopped barking.
My days have been more crowded lately, and I don’t like it. It makes me feel ill-at-ease, a restless numbness that craves relief and release.
I see a reminder that I have written for myself, “Do your dharma. I will take care of the rest,” and I remember that I can relax into this moment. The note is actually from the Author of benevolent caring, to Whose call I am responding.
It is this calling that is making my days more crowded, and this love note reminds me that living into the highest version of myself requires crowded days sometimes. It is the age-old tussle between meaning and comfort. Prioritizing meaning is not always comfortable.
I have learned that the days will not be less crowded if I try to manage things. After all, there is nothing to manage. Life is not a problem to be solved. The struggle is within, not without.
There is peace in noticing the little red flower framed by the porch rails, and the cat hiding in the garden. I look up and see the shadow trees in the yard. I missed them before, and I am relieved that I see them now because I know that they only show themselves at certain times.
As I rock in my chair, the birds call, “Here,” and “Here.”