What we have forgotten

“Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.” 
― Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice

Hummingbird on branch

My baby granddaughter loves to watch the hummingbirds that feed near the back porch. She loves to dig in the flower pots and move rocks one by one from a wooden crate into a tin bucket. She loves the wind chimes and the warm spring wind in her downy hair and looking up at the falling rain and imitating the crows cawing from the tops of tall firs and helping me feed cracked corn to the mallard duck pair that returns each spring. She loves to stand with me at river’s edge and dig in the sand and laughs with delight as the late afternoon light walks on water, sparkling across the riffles like an incantation for peace.

She loves everything and I love watching her fall in love with the world — our big blue marble rendered brand new and fresh and full of wonder right along with her. My little bird of a granddaughter re-opens my eyes and mind to the art of seeing — to the simple joys of ordinary moments and the extraordinary beauty of the earth. Every moment a celebration.

*Terry Tempest Williams, a writer whose work focuses on the American West was recently honored with a prestigious L.A. Times lifetime achievement award. I admire her work and her deep sense of place, as well as her activism as a conservationist. A new interview HERE grants further insight into her work and drive as a writer.

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