Through the Window

New buds adorn the ratty something-or-other bush.  Does it mind being unnamed?  No, comes the echo of an answer. My life outside your window does not revolve around what you might call me.

Mid-April, and those green-but-pinking nubs poke the cool air. So proud they are, so full of everything. About twelve feet away a puddle sits contemplatively, as puddles often do.

Little sidewalk mirror, does your transience make more precious all that you reflect?

The small pool seems oblivious to my questions. It probably doesn’t speak human, and why should it?

Bud and puddle in conversation tell each other stories of moisture and clouds, death and rebirth, the many forms of condensation. Puddle knows bud will live weeks as opposed to its own mere hours. Bud knows sun will coax her small promise into glorious blossom even as puddle will shrink and dissolve.

There is no angst here. Puddle sits in the certainty that it will live on through the drizzle it’ll be one day, making bud’s flowers possible. Bud knows bee will come to draw nectar and pollinate the greening world, feeding four leggeds, finned ones, crawlies and those that fly. We, too, are fed. Every birth begets a dying. No apologies, no remorse.

Outside my window—yours, too—a symphony of cooperation and interconnectedness could fill eyes and ears with wonder if we only pause long enough to take it all in. The seasons are orchestral movements teeming with grace and wonder, the Conductor a peerless maestro. We humans are part of this despite our long and sometimes brutal efforts to separate ourselves from the music.

What would be possible if more of us could accept the beauty of being one note in the song of creation? What kind of healing might occur if humanity could stop trying to wrest control of the entire basket of resources and wonder the world contains?

Thanks so much for reading!

Melinda