The Small Moments
The fog drifts, a morning mist dripping like angels’ lace across the hills. The parrots fly across the heavy sky — in the wrong direction. Perhaps the diffuse dawn has confused them, altering their routine. I like to think that perhaps they followed each other’s squawks back the roost again, and then asked one another, “Why do we always fly the same way each day?”
The tiny hummingbirds dazzle in the dew which slicks their feathers. They shimmer like reflections of sparks of jeweled light on dark waters. As they pirouette, they catch a bit of brightness in the air, an errant beam of sunlight, and they flash a little fire with each flap of wing.
From my perch on the balcony, I watch the world shapeshift through ephemeral swirls of vapor. From my teacup, warm in my hands, steam rises to mingle with the air. Dampness clings to my skin.
The garden breathes, and I breathe with her, inhaling the wetness of the drooping lavender stalks and the moistness of the dirt.
The rain has begun to fall softly across the earth now. The lime tree has become a refuge for the sparrows. The birds’ chatter calls from every branch, and feathers flutter wildly, tossing dewdrops back into the air. Their gossip mingles in melody with the dripping of the heavy dew from the leaves.
The Angel’s trumpets, normally flaring open in joyful proclamation of the day, are tightly-fisted tubules hanging from wet branches, swaying in the mist.
The succulent blooms have withered to brittle stalks, all of that life energy diving back into the mother plant as she prepares for spring. And the liquid amber leaves, just recently shimmering like gold dollars, have fallen, leaving behind ghosts of trees, white bark in white fog.
Emerson, my feline puff of ebony fluff, looks as if he has been kissed by the air — tiny diamonds shimmer in his fur. I can sense the excitement in his eyes, as he surveys the world below.
I draw in another lungful of magical morning air, and can taste the damp decay of leaves and pine needles mingled with the mosses, which are glowing anew with chlorophyll. And the irises’ sweet purple perfume, which clings to your fingertips, tickles my nose. Their papery petals have suddenly wilted with the dampness of the air, and their scent seems stronger, muskier.
It is these mornings which I love the most — the time to nurture words and dreams.
A tiny spider, no bigger than a speck of dust, dances beside me on the arm of the chair. They, too, love this time of year. They spin their webs, elaborate constructions arching over the garden beds, like fairy cloaks of gossamer.
Mother Nature feels alive — not in the same way as in the spring, when she dons her bright colors and ruffled skirts and when butterflies dance through the sky — but in a deeper song that rumbles through the dirt, touching the roots of creation.
Mr. Squirrel peeks through the fence, as if to ask if he can enter the paradise which shelters his feeder full of food. And, quite certain that he is stealing the nuts, which have actually been placed there for him, he stealthily creeps from tree to tree, then dangles in an acrobatic feat of wonder, upside down, arched in spine and swirled in tail, for ballast, as he reaches for his breakfast.
A solitary squawk carries across the valley. The parrots are returning, redirected somehow towards their daytime hang-out spot in the Eucalyptus trees. Parrots are funny. They cannot fly in a straight line. Flapping wildly in groups of two or six or twenty, they are always eager to discuss their day. They call to one another as they dip and weave, as if focused intently on their conversations, and not paying attention to where they are going.
I think, perhaps, we should all be a bit more like the parrots…focused on the now, noticing the small things. For these are the details of life, perhaps the reason we are even here in this magical plane, where we can wear dewdrops in our hair and listen to parrot symphonies.
We often move so quickly and methodically through our modern world that we forget that we are infinite beings here to explore the play of the opposites — the morning mist and the warmth of the sun, the darkness and the light, deep love and also despair. Each moment rolls into the next, so fast sometimes that we don’t even notice until the moments are gone.
The tiny spider, no bigger than one of those dewdrops, has now woven another strand of her song of creation. She has a vision, a plan for the future, but I think, that she, too, senses the minute moments.
And, Emerson, blinking those liquid jade eyes, yawns and settles a little deeper into the chair next to me. His eyelids droop. But he is not asleep. He is absorbed in “being,” basking in the sea of waking dreams, floating amidst the sounds, the smells, and the touch of the mystical morning.
I close my eyes too, and take another breath.
I breathe with the earth. And she breathes with me.
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Story and photos ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.pho
