A little bird, with plumage brown,      
Beside my window flutters down,      
A moment chirps its little strain,      
Ten taps upon my window-pane,      
And chirps again, and hops along,     
To call my notice to its song;      
But I work on, nor heed its lay,     
Till, in neglect, it flies away.      

 
So birds of peace and hope and love     
Come fluttering earthward from above,     
To settle on life's window-sills,      
And ease our load of earthly ills;     
But we, in traffic's rush and din     
Too deep engaged to let them in,      
With deadened heart and sense plod on,      
Nor know our loss till they are gone

By Lawrence Dunbar, The Sparrow (1896) 

Terry Chapman shared this little poem and it reminded me of the picture I had drawn that seemed to be the perfect accompaniment. Looking at this little bird perched on the windowsill it seems as though it would like to come in out of the cold or is hoping for a few crusts of bread. Will the person who dwells there notice? Will they offer warmth and shelter or has their heart frozen from within? Or will they be too busy to take notice or to care? 

This poem offers a poignant message.  In the day to day, I can see myself overworking or getting caught up in the rush from time to time. Strangely there is a part of me that thinks I have all the time in the world and that life will wait for me. Yet, our lives can change with a blink of an eye when lightning strikes, be a natural disaster, an accident, political chaos, or an unexpected test result; something that shakes us to the core. 

Suddenly, we awaken to the reality of impermanence in our lives and how precious the gift we have received. I've heard it said that we ought to live each day as if it was our last. I believe it to be true, I know this but I can easily fall into the stupor of forgetfulness.

So when a dark night arrives, in the midst of it all a silvery light finds its way in. I prefer to believe that this little bird has come as a sign of hospefulness. Our hearts know that just beyond the chilly cold of winter, spring will surely come and with her comes the promise of new life.  

Perhaps, as gift of remembering, of our hearts thawing and coming alive to live fully in this moment, listening to bird song and opening our hearts to what may arrive on our windowsill. 

Liz Sorensen Wessel