Meg came home yesterday after being away for three days. She was tired, but happy. We had a family dinner with fajitas, and while I was cleaning up, I heard her singing in the other room. This is so Meg; before she could talk, she would wake up in her crib every morning and sing. Life goes on its busy way while she's gone, and I'm distracted enough to not realize that I've missed her until she's home again, singing. Then I feel my body ease, and the sense of completeness return to our family.
The birds are singing like crazy now,
especially in the mornings. This dawn chorus is only with us for a
couple of months as the birds define territories and seek mates.
Here in Maine, sunrise is just about 5:00 a.m. these days, but the
birds can start singing up to an hour before that. We sleep with the
windows wide open, and the early
melodies outside rouse me to just below conscious levels. It
is a side-effect I didn't anticipate when I started to learn bird
songs: my mind whispers “Phoebe”, “Catbird”, “Common
yellow-throat” into my dozing brain until my alarm goes off. I
like this, actually. There is an intimacy that comes from
sharing the early morning with the wild world. Some people complain
about these birds. To me, they are the Grinches of spring.
Not everyone is a singer, but I want to
believe music is as intrinsic to our souls as love is. Making music
is a whole different energy than passive listening. And singing is
the music of our bodies; we breathe, we vibrate, we create. Singing
physically changes me. I can howl like a wolf (alone in the car,
singing to a certain song), or weep the tears that were barricaded
inside me until a hymn begins. Those places – and the shower –
used to be the only “safe” places non-professional singers like
me could sing. But now singing is cool; “Pitch Perfect” is the
movie of choice at Anna's sleepovers, and even Andrew wants to try
out for an a capella group when he gets to high school.
This resurgence in singing gives me
hope.
Soon the birds will be settled with
mates and territories, and the dawn chorus will fade. Soon Meg and
Anna and Andrew will be off to camp for the summer. I suspect they
will be singing there, even more than they do around home. It will
be quiet here this summer. But summer has its own magic, the magic
of fireflies and thunderstorms and buzzing crickets in the meadows.
That is the coming season.
Now, though, I keep the windows open,
and the birds sing me into a new day the way Meg did from her crib.
I hope nothing ever takes their voices away.
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| Phoebe at the windowsill |