The butterflies are back, and they remind me of fragility. How control can be lost with a strong gust of wind. They seem happy though, and that gives me hope. A chickadee followed me along my walk this week, cocking its head curiously at my figure and happily bouncing from branch to branch. The sunglasses I wore are normally sold to fishermen. They cut out the glare around me, giving incredible color to the world.

I laid down on my back and looked up at the sky, feeling that this was the best way to observe and catch some well-needed rest at the same time. In my absence of movement, taking pictures, and using binoculars for observation, the yellow-rumped warblers seemed to decide that I was approachable. I had never seen them quite this close before, at least with not with my naked eye. I watched one and thought back to our first encounter in late winter – how he had stayed on the other side of the creek bank, a distant fleck of beauty and energy.

“Become totally empty
Quiet the restlessness of the mind
Only then will you witness everything
Unfolding from emptiness.
See all things flourish and dance
in endless variation.”
-Tao Te Ching, verse 16

Have you ever had a moment in the woods where it seems as though nothing living is present, one that makes you think: Who has turned off the splendor? Or perhaps you have found yourself fixating on one aspect of your surroundings, drowning all else out. It’s not unusual, and it is often your wandering mind that dampens variation. I was surprised at my ability to quiet my mind during this visit, as it had felt near capacity during the morning.

As I reclined, I felt the warmth of the sun fill my chest as my lungs facilitated breathing. Once in a while, the sun would flicker as flying birds stole occasional rays from my line of vision. I lay there watching the warblers, enjoying their close proximity and skilled foraging movements. I rolled over and, right at my eye level, a Great Blue Heron flew by silently, without a flap of the wings, over the flowing water.

I’ll never get tired of that.

The photographer in me begged my hands to reach for my camera in an attempt to create an image of my warbler companions, but once visible the device seemed to scare them off. I felt guilty for using it but at the same time eager to capture the mesmerizing feather patterns, to have proof of nature’s incredible color palate. Using binoculars made me feel more distant from them, and I preferred relishing in the anticipation that they might come closer to my still body. I laid back down. Overhead, vultures started circling closer, and I wondered how dead I appeared in this very moment, despite the intense feelings of life coursing through my veins.

Alright, I thought, it’s time to discover what Paul Winter was feeling. I took from my backpack a blues harp given to me by my father. I wasn’t sure how old it was, but it felt ancient in my hands. I have tried to be a musician at so many points in my life. I attempted to make a recorder sound bearable, stretched my stubby fingers over piano keys and guitar strings, and blew hot air over the hole of a flute and the reed of a saxophone.

All attempts had seemed mediocre at best. I blew simple notes into this new instrument and felt as though I could do no wrong. My thoughts and feelings flew through the carefully constructed openings and put me at ease. The warblers, meanwhile, seemed to come closer upon hearing me play. I looked to my right and saw one fly off quickly from an extremely close resting place where I imagined he was listening, perplexed at my “song.” My thoughts drifted to wonder about whether birds internalize any sounds while be-bopping around in search for morsels of food or a mate. I knew the 5K runners on the road close by would likely be lost without their music IV. Again, I picked up my camera and clutched it as I continued to play the harp. Like clockwork, the warblers shied away. I put it down once again.

The emerging leaves and seeds on the once lifeless trees are miniature versions of who they plan to be later this year. They are fragile, like the now-present butterflies.

“Don’t bother me
I’ve just
been born.”
(Mary Oliver, One or Two Things)

I felt reborn for some brief moments as I lay staring up at trees giving off new life. The vultures and warblers inspected me as a helpless being, an infant slightly out of her element, at least for a while. Desire to feel this way forever was hard to avoid. Mary Oliver’s poem talks about the necessity for understanding both joy and pain in life. All the wrong notes I had played on the piano were necessary for understanding what harmony should sound like. Being vulnerable, fragile, or hungry makes moments of rebirth that much more meaningful. The hectic life I left behind brought meaning to the moments I shared with yellow-rumped foragers.

“the butterfly
rose, weightless, in the wind.
‘Don’t love your life too much,’
it said.”
(One or Two Things)

I have not, and I will not, but right in this moment, life is pretty good.