Waking up

On Tuesday, I woke up to a world that seemed more colorful than it had been when I went to bed the night before. A fog had lifted behind my eyes, and I could think clearly again. It was like waking up from several weeks of absence instead of waking up from a night of sleep. My first trimester officially ends just about now, so the hormone haze must be lifting.

On Wednesday, I was driving home, and my eyes were drawn to a steep little hill were some oak trees grew in a patch of wildness surrounded by farm fields. This has happened before, in other places. Groups of oak trees growing on undisturbed land force themselves into my attention. My head turns towards the trees, moved by the same reflex that makes a pedestrian suddenly turn to meet my eyes when I watch her silently from behind the wheel of my car. I do not understand this, but when I am drawn to look at the trees, I experience somber expansiveness. I experience grit, and I experience light. I experience something I can only liken to the sound of a voice, and every time my eyes are drawn to a hill full of oak trees, I hear the same aged voice again.

On Thursday morning, my daughter called from her bed, "I have not heard that birdsong all winter." By late morning, the trees outside my house had become a waterfall of chirps and trills. I cannot identify birds, but some of the songs reminded me of the redwinged blackbirds that lived in the cattails around my pond when I was a child. Their dark bodies in the tops of the trees looked like fat buds swelling out of the delicate fringe of branches. I counted 114 of them.

Throughout the day, I cast glances out the window at the woods across the street, aware that when I did this, I felt a sense of vulnerability. I think I am being asked to hold the woods in prayer during a tender time for them. This is unexpected. I have been wondering if I'm hearing my own vulnerable condition reflected by the woods. Maybe not, though. Maybe even the first stirring of spring feels like nausea, fog and uncertainty instead of a miracle.