First Robin

It's late, just finished dinner after my sunset walk, and am listening to John Hiatt's "Have a Little Bit of Faith in Me" ...



It's been a while since I've felt that little bit of faith, although it was the path that I followed from the Berkshires to Butte ... from a dead-end job and a deadening existence to the privilege of following my intellectual abilities and a flowering of my Self.

Pursuing my studies, developing my thinking, delving more deeply into matters that I'd only skimmed in the past has brought much into question for me - and I wondered, during the more difficult days and nights: a little bit of faith in ... who? ... what? and why?

It seemed that the still, small voice of my heart that I followed here abandoned me about a year ago. Left me, as they say, high and dry. Instead of flowing with Life, I was grounded ... stranded ... and not only couldn't I see the waters of life flowing - I couldn't even hear them in the distance.

The voice of the mind - it's neither still nor small - it's in constant motion and and it's damn loud. Without my heart, it leads me in circles - nothing is more, or less, true than anything else and really - depending on your point of view ... where you're standing in the moment ... almost anything can make sense. I appreciate my mind - it's interesting and interested - it's supple and open - it's willing to both listen and speak ... but without my heart, it's empty of meaning.

A few days ago I was in the cafe on campus to take some time to study and focus. My daughter called to celebrate her last day of work, and I caught sight of someone who has become dear to and yet distant from me. Outside, a sudden spring storm reflected my inner storm - full of sound and fury and signifying ... ?

Yesterday, all the stress of work, health, family, and school came to a head - feeling my obligations tugging me in too many directions and I was coming unraveled. I had a few minutes to stroll around the campus before the first meeting with my thesis committee and I focused on slowing my footsteps, slowing my breath, focusing on the beautiful, wind-filled day. Just before I walked back into the building, the first robin of spring flew past. A symbol of hope ... faith ... even though we can't see it - spring has returned. Plump bodies, soft red breasts, sharp eyes and beaks, a brash song, and wings to carry them places I wish I could go.

This evening I went out just before sunset. The winds had died back and the world was softly filled with gray clouds. As I walked - the first robin turned into the first hundred ... or it seemed so anyway. Their songs and wings filled the air. I walked slowly, appreciating the time and space. Allowing my thoughts to pull me forward as I contemplated some of the challenges of my thesis, I also left room to be attentive to the grasses, the ravens, the mountains, the fading light. Mostly though, it was the robins that caught and snagged my attention. The little namesakes of my own past - the name I released, but not the hope.

On the last rise, that still, small voice returned. Soft, yes - strong, yes. It reminded me of the faith in my heart. To have a little faith - in me, in my connection to my love, to my passions, to my delight, to my joy. It made a promise that I doubted ... but wanted to believe. And then, a few steps later, an unexpected synchronicity. A sign? Perhaps. A reason to believe? Perhaps. It's how I got from the Berkshires to Butte ... it's how I got from the dark winter of Dillon to the bright promises of Butte. I know that signs don't always mean what I think ... but they usually do signify something more than sound and fury. Today, they signify hope, faith, and the return of the promises of Life.

Just because I don't ... doesn't mean I don't want to.