I was meditating, grief-stricken, as close to the forest as I can get, indoors.
My peace was interrupted by an incessant buzz, signaling the dawn arrival of a hummingbird.
I smiled. He drank from the feeder, while blue sky and sunshine exploded in the east, pushing the week’s storm clouds to the west.
Warmed by this morning sun, I moved my chair closer to the windows, and let the calm settle me back into prayer.
I opened my eyes to the most red-headed of our residents, drilling his pepper-speck black eyes my way.
Returned the gaze.
He didn’t move. My breathing slowed. I can’t be certain he could actually see me, behind the glass, but something in my direction seemed to fascinate.
I am grateful for a sunbreak that commanded the morning sky. I am grateful for our hummingbirds, dancing in two pairs in the warmer breeze in mid-afternoon.
I am grateful to have stillness to sit with grief; hold it, in peace, in meditation; and to explore it, in prayer, learning about myself and the pain of others.
Later, walking in the woods to the excited chatter of chickadees, Hadi and I watched the arrival of new migrant ducks, skittering across the mill pond like boisterous children. The treetops were alive with birdsong.
Grief had settled into a quiet place, overlaid with gratitude.