It’s the second week of May in southern New England. That’s warbler season. The oak pollen lies thick on the deck and gathered in clusters on the lilacs. It’s difficult to meditate in the 6:00 AM light with so many warblers calling. Black and White. American Redstart. Northern Parula.
The catbird is a steady chatter as counterpoint. He says he will stay all summer when the fickle warbler has flown north to breed in cooler woods.
“When the song of the Black-throated Green arises
simply notice it, let it drift away
and bring your thoughts back to your mantra.
You are not these bird songs.
Center yourself in your breath and your body.
Self-awareness is the only gate to the universe.”
I know, I know… It’s a lot for a Catbird to conjure. But they seem to know me. Seem to know that I am prone to the dull directionless pull of thoughts that are not anyone but are there all the same. That the truth is in the body. Waiting for the pollen to finish its yellow squall. For the warbler song to migrate north. For my own voice to settle into the backyard of summer. A guided chatter. Patient rhythmic breath. Presence.
