Sunday meditation on spring, birdsong, and grief…

I am sitting on the trunk of a fallen aspen in the woods behind our house.

My eyes are closed and my face is lifted to the sun which is already quite high in the eastern sky. It was cold overnight; cold enough to freeze the water laying in the low spots on the trail. So although there is ice beneath my feet, there is heat in the sun’s rays and my face is warmed. Behind my closed eyes I see golden yellow as I feel the sun on my skin.

Birdsong in the woods…

Overhead a raven cries its deep throaty burble as it flies past.

And then from somewhere to the north of me, I hear the gentle thumping of a Ruffed Grouse as he drums. This is not the first time I’ve heard him on my walks out back; he’s been drumming for several days.

His sound is so much more than a sound though – it is palpable. As I sit there I can feel the thudding in my chest, almost like a heartbeat. Imagine being at a concert, the drummer beating the bass kicker but there’s no noise, only the reverberation of the air as the sound waves crash through you. It’s that kind of feeling.

He starts slowly, building in intensity. Thump………thump………thump……thump…thump..thump.thump.thump.thump.thump.

Farther along the path toward the lagoon, I hear the trilling of a Red-winged blackbird. I can’t see him from where I’m sitting, but in my mind’s eye I see him clearly. He is likely clinging to the stalk of a cattail or the slender branch of a willow; his red shoulder with its creamy edge bright against the inky blackness of his body.

To the south I hear a bright chirp followed by the sweetly sung melody of a robin. And from the same direction, I hear the chirping song of a chickadee. His song has changed from his typical chickadee-dee-dee of the winter. Now the tiny bird sings a love song.

All around me the woods are filled with birdsong, songs of spring.

It feels like it’s come a bit earlier this year. Oh, snow still lays in the shaded places, but the sun and the birds tell me the season has well and truly changed. I can smell earthiness in the air, the scent of thawing soil. Fresh shoots of hardy grasses are beginning to emerge on the pathway. Already the furry grey pussy willows have begun to change and bloom with tiny, bright yellow blossoms. It won’t be long before the catkins fall to the ground and new yellow-green leaves emerge.

Finding signs of spring…

It is perhaps my favourite season because it comes with so much hope. For months while the earth lays still, sleeping through the winter, I look forward to spring. The closer it comes the more I look for signs.

I watch the snow, waiting for the warmth of the sun to change the delicate flakes to icy crystals heavy with moisture; waiting for the sound of water running beneath the drifts. But it is the birds that I watch for the most.

I long for the first honking cry of the Canada geese returning. And when they finally come, there is a leap of joy within because I know – I know winter is over.

Finding meaning in the song…

And now, here I sit on a fallen tree, listening to the songs of all the birds that have followed the geese. I wish with all my heart that I could understand their songs.

But maybe I can.

Maybe the joy that wells up inside me as I listen to them is the message of their singing. It could be that the hope that builds with each song from a newly returned traveler is the message. These are the reminders from nature that life goes on and that if we will only have eyes to see, ears to hear, and hearts to understand, hope still lives.

That sounds simple, doesn’t it? It’s not always.

Finding comfort in the song…

I find myself thinking of all the families I have served through my job – the family I served recently – each of them enduring the bitter cold winter of grief; long dark days followed by equally dark nights.

I wonder how long before the warmth of the sun begins to break through the chill; how long before they hear the joy in a simple bird song?

I wish I knew the answers. I wish that each time I have come to the end of a service and try to offer comfort for their pain that I could tell them how long it will be before they will feel joy again; how long it will be before they stop hurting so much. And my heart breaks because there are no answers to those questions.

All I can offer – and I know it is cold comfort – is that someday it won’t hurt quite so much. While they learn to be in the world without the one whom they have loved and continue to love so very much, the sun will wait – still shining until they can feel it. The birds will still sing until one day they can be heard. Someday the long winter of grief will give way and spring will bloom in their hearts once more.

If you’d like to read another lesson I learned from the birds about grief, try this one…
https://www.cathytubb.com/miracles-happen/