The robins are coming to life. The loose flocks lurking around the neighborhood are now moving in, feasting on the red holly berries that just turned the proper degree of ripeness after January’s crisp nights.
The activity in the backyard this morning caught my eye as the robins darted from pine to holly and then back again, like trapeze artists in a circus performance.
A plump, speckled one suddenly landed on the fence, eyeing me as I came out the back door for a closer look.
Round, red breast.
Beady, black eye.
Fast, firm grip.
She contemplated me, pausing for a moment in the work of her life: to pluck ripe berries before making her way up North for nest-building time. It’s a natural process that can’t be stopped; a force of nature that can’t avoided.
“You better be ready for a growth stage,” she seemed to say, eyeing me steadily.
I’m a bit surprised to find that I am.
As I look at the photos of the new house I covet—a cute cottage, just the right size, in just the right neighborhood—I realize I’m actually looking forward to change. I’m not holding on to this place. The bright red door of possibility is as warm and welcoming as the robin’s breast.
“Change is coming,” the robin told me. “You must learn to tolerate the strain. Don’t let Change stomp all over you with clumsy work boots and thick soles. Let Change gently blow you to your new destination, like the East wind that brought Mary Poppins to #17 Cherry Tree Lane.”
It’s true that change is inevitable, like the turn of the seasons, like the robins’ need to eat and migrate, like the balmy spring that will follow the frozen winter of my heart.
Spring is my favorite season, after all. Perhaps I can tuck its blooms into my own red breast and get ready to migrate to my new home.
Here.
In the garden.
inthegardenofthedivine 