I leave my window open just a crack just enough to hear the birds singing in the day.
Their chorus begins in the dark. Like me, the sun loves their song and rises to listen.
Too soon, their melodies will be silenced by discordant tones as the rest of the world gets up beginning not in song, but getting their daily briefing on what to be mad about who to fear and who’s to blame.
The birds’ midday silence makes me sad. It seems they know my sadness; they feel it too.
At dusk, as another day closes the gay melodies that woke the sun are quiet. I hear only a lone dove mourning yet another day when fear and hate prevailed.
Tomorrow Tomorrow we will do it again, for we choose not to live as those who have no hope.
Spread kindness like wildfire. Ask questions. Cross bridges. Pick up a piece of trash. Say hello. Say thank you, to God and others. Go for a walk. Make eye contact. Consider the lilies. Mend fences. Plant wildflowers. Sit in the grass and watch a bumblebee—it will teach you there is no need to rush. Pay for someone’s coffee. Bake two loaves of bread. Give one away. Pray for those who belittle you. Be kind to yourself. Shed tears when you are sad. Sing show tunes, preferably with someone else. Draw a tree; even a stick tree will do. Savor an orange. When you are angry, breathe deeply and exhale mercy. Listen to “the gift of a thistle” by James Horner. Visit somewhere new. Light a candle; in fact, light three, or a hundred. Play with a toddler. Drink a cup of tea. Read a poem by Mary Oliver, or perhaps Rumi. Write a letter to someone, with real paper and ink. Send it through the mail. Look for goodness. Celebrate beauty—it is everywhere. Listen with curiosity. Sing loudly in your car. Hold someone’s hand. Pet a dog. Bike to work. Buy original art, anyone local will do. Always stop at a lemonade stand and always overpay. Breathe. Do it again. Do you realize what a miracle it is that you are alive?
Love sounds good on paper but paper love is too easily crumpled, torn, and burned.
True love comes from a more primitive place not bright white smoothness eight point five by eleven, but from an ancient seed blown to the ground and buried in death that transforms into something greater Always reaching for the light, though daily assailed by gales or scorching sun Perhaps not comforting, but necessary.