Migrating Wood Nymphs

I was thinking about birds when I met them, having just been talking with my neighbor, Alex, who tells me a Raspberry Finch is appearing at his fifth-floor window every morning now. “That’s all the proof you need,” he told me, beaming with certainty, “that the universe moves forward on the energy of love.” I must have looked dubious. He went on, “Sure, we have an oligarchic government; sure, they’re all about greed and destruction. But their power won’t last. Governments rise and fall, but this little bird, smaller than the palm of my hand, survives the wind, the rain, and the cold of a winter like we just had, and it sings the sun up every morning with a warbling song that carries two miles. Nothing but love could make that happen.” 

With a heart full of Alex’s certitude, I met Cynthia and Phil and heard them talk about what they love. A requiem sung in German. A wood-working group full of the kindest, most generous people you could ever meet. A Welsh chorus. A newly-discovered third cousin who has preserved a great-grandmother’s diary, dress, and under-garments. A meeting with strangers who part as friends. 

We spoke of the joy that comes from being of use to others. We search for ways to be useful, we try to make gifts of ourselves and our skills, we offer what we have, always feeling it isn’t enough. But when our gifts are received, we are so happy we fluff up and sing.