“So tell me little bird
All of the good things that you’ve heard
‘Cause I need you little bird
To sing me a sweet song…”
~Brooke White, “Little Bird”
So there’s this feathery little creature that seems insistent upon tormenting me every morning. I don’t know what he looks like – what color feathers gleam in the first rays of sunlight that creep over the horizon, what size beak opens to greet the brand new day, what kind of perch he uses to steady himself on the tree branch. But his chirp? That incessant cheep-cheep-cheep that sometimes seems absolutely, positively, unbelievably never-ending? Oh, that I know so well. So well.
It’s only fair to point out that I’m the lightest sleeper ever. If someone walks across a room at the other end of the house, it sometimes wakes me up. If someone slams a car door farther down the street, it almost always wakes me up. When our former neighbor decided it would clearly be the best idea ever to warm her car up for a half hour on cold, winter mornings – which, to her, meant turning up the radio so loudly that I could hear EVERY SINGLE WORD from our house and then going back inside while she waited – well, let’s just say that I still have the day they moved to the city committed to memory. So yes, a normal sleeper could probably doze through the choral arrangement of robins/blue jays/cardinals/morning doves/every bird on the face of the planet that seems to enjoy taking up residence in the cherry tree right outside my window. I love that tree. I love to look out at the velvety pink blossoms and the whisper of a canopy that they create. And, during the day, I actually enjoy the sound of the birds’ sweet songs. But at the crack of dawn? Before the crack of dawn? There are days when actually pleading with them to take their melodies and harmonies elsewhere doesn’t seem like a bad idea.
I’m pretty sure they like to follow me, too. My proof is the above picture from Central Park. Everyone else thought it was hilarious when we came across that spot not far from the lake. Me? Well, maybe slightly. So instead of thinking about the fact that I’m probably never going to get a non-interrupted night of sleep before September (the choral performance begins at about 6:15 these days, which is fine – I’ve always been the kind of person who likes to wakes up really early, anyway – but as the sun rises earlier, so will that time, until it gets to the oh-so-lovely 4:15 or so), I’m going to focus on the sweetness of those chirps. I’m going to do what Brooke wrote about in her song, to think of the little birds tweeting about all the good things that they’ve heard, all the hope that they have to share. Because, really, isn’t that how most people feel about the arrival of spring and all it holds in its blooming grasp? I know I do. Spring is a time of blossoming, of newness, rebirth, and faith in everything that’s just waiting to sprout up.
That’s the perspective I’m choosing to take. I’m staying hopeful about the opportunities that lay ahead and keeping my fingers crossed that if I open myself up to possibility, possibilities will open themselves up to me. And, with a little bit of luck, one day soon I’ll have a sweet song to sing, too.
Just not before the sun rises.
Does the start of spring inspire hope for you, too? Are you looking forward to all the blossoming? Oh, and just in case: anyone have any tips for sleeping more soundly or tricking the birds into building a nest elsewhere?