Perspective

There is a robin in our garden this autumn. Most often, he seems rather tense and stressed. Can a robin be tense and stressed? He perches hidden within the mountain rowan tree, which is covered in orange berries and dying leaves, and I hear his staccato series of high pitched cheeps, as if he is urgently warning his world of impending threat and doom. 

To be honest, I feel much the same at the moment. The news is heart-rending and threatening. Friends are suffering, with bereavement, illness and turmoil. I feel tension in my core, and my own staccato awareness of stress comes out in snippy, impatient responses and criticisms. My way of retreating to cover is to look for entertainment, advice, anything at all, in the consuming world wide web. I hope this will make me feel better, less tired, but it never does. It drains. And the evening evaporates.

But once in a while, the robin perches up high, on a small curved branch that he knows is the first part of the garden to catch the sun. I pause and watch him as I get on my bike, ready to ride to work, and he is glowing in all his red fronted glory, and exulting in his astonishing, beautiful song. In that moment, he doesn’t notice me, or the cats by my feet. It’s as if nothing in the world matters except to sing. Then, as I cycle up through the woods the mist on the distant fields creates a layer of mystery and calm, the trees rise in grey silhouettes, and the sunlight breaking through makes everything close to me sparkle. I sing my own silent song of exaltation. 

Be at rest once more, my soul, and seek to see the world from the vantage point of hope. Ditch the need to control and, instead, sing once in a while, and laugh, and give, and love. And pray. Because we carry within us the sufferings, but we can entwine them with joy and hope and laughter. Somehow.