Not much is happening out there today. As I pour the bird seed over the feeder I hear only the faint call of bird song. They've probably been wondering where I've been, leaving the feeder almost empty in yesterday's late afternoon, as I sat in a movie theater watching Daniel Day-Lewis become President Lincoln, and wondering why this country has always preferred war over peaceful resolution, has always wanted what others have instead of opening up its eyes to all the possibilities inherent in what we do have: sunshine, wind, and people with good souls and loving hearts. Certainly by now, we must be growing weary of the bodies in the mud and the sand.
I recall a day very near this one in feeling when I was probably thirteen years old. We had not yet moved from our small farm to the house on the lake. It was wash day, which always felt interminable. Lines of sheets and towels spread everywhere. But, in this moment, the last of the laundry was being removed so I stopped to listen more closely to a bird that seemed to be calling my name. As I listened my thoughts drifted to a Beatles song, "Nowhere Man," and I began to sing it softly to myself. I have no idea why that moment remains etched in my memory but there it is, as though it just happened.
Down in the hollow, on this morning, everything is still, and then a bird calls, loudly and persistently, to remind me that there is more happening in the world than I could ever see or hear, like the ice thawing and dripping from the edge of the cabin's metal roof onto the dead leaves below. As I listen, I sense the presence of the two little raccoon that spent the summer with me, tucked into the corner of the cabin, leaving me bereft with their passing. But, what if they didn't really leave? What if I dreamed it all out of fear and indecision, out of a learning that must now be unlearned? What if they're still here but I can't see them? What if all of life is concealed in the quiet of this moment, the only moment there ever really is?