I knew a woman once who was not sure she wanted to go on living. She was old. She lived alone. She was afraid to go to sleep at night for fear that she would not wake up in the morning, so she lay in her bed waiting for the sun to come up before she dared to shut her eyes.
Then someone who loved her suggested that as long as she was awake, she might as well start listening for the first bird that sang each morning. Before long the sound of that bird became the bell that woke her heart to life again.
She named the bird. She discovered what such birds like to eat and put feeders full of seed in her yard. Other birds came, and she learned their names as well. She began to collect birdhouses, which she hung from the rafters of her porch until she became the mayor of an entire bird village.
She still does not sleep well, but she is no longer afraid of her life. The practice of paying attention is as simple as looking twice at people and things you might just as easily ignore. To see takes time, like having a friend takes time. It is as simple as turning off the television to learn the song of a single bird. Why should anyone do such things? I cannot imagine -- unless one is weary of crossing days off the calendar with no sense of what makes that last day different form the next. Unless one is weary of acting in what feels more like a television commercial than a life. The practice of paying attention offers no quick fix for such weariness. Instead, it is one way into a different way of life, full of treasure for those who are willing to pay attention to exactly where they are.
From: An Altar In The World, by Barbara Brown Taylor, pg.32
27. I am grateful for safe travel to Wyoming.
I hope your Sunday is a day with no work or preoccupation. I hope a someone sings song just for you. I hope you hear it.
Yaya
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