Despite everything; the sorrow of others and my own long winter, the season of quiet renewal has begun. Nature, my favorite mentor and companion, has taken me by the hand and lifted my eyes from burial grounds to half way up the sky.
They are coming for me, the messenger birds, one or two at a time. Last March, the singular, swooping bat in my basement announced the prophecy of my year. This March, it is the eagle, the distinguished timing of witnessing the seconds-long mating of red tail hawks, and yesterday, the king fisher on a wire, nowhere near water, that called out to me a mile before she came into view.
It is going to be a different year. At the funeral of a friend, the minister spoke of ever-deepening grief and the promise that the Creator of All Things will indeed lead us back to joy. The messenger birds tell me to believe him.
Because the late day sun cast a golden sheen on my cluttered kitchen table and for the first time in countless months, I saw art in the lit disarray. I unearthed my camera, bent close and felt my lungs expand.