On the back screen porch this morning, and spoiled by the warmth. Another grey day. Rain was predicted last night, did not come. The hens were kicking up such a racket, I went out to see, but they were just greeting the morning. We’re also having flocks of black birds; so great a number that when they move, their wings make a wind sound.
Little Dude and I finally filled the bird feeder at the kitchen window, and right now little small birds are eating there–black capped chickadees and some small grey wrens. It is curious to me, this fascination that has grown in me about birds. I assure you that I did not have it until the last few years. Maybe it is about seeing more deeply and widely, about paying attention, and as Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, has said: “The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.”
As a writer, I have the nature of paying attention, of noticing small details, in fact, of searching and trying to figure out small details. My books, and my mind, are full of details and each means something, sometimes making me crazy in my effort to find out what they mean. I get away from paying attention to wrapped up in the why.
I think when you are really paying attention, though, you are not so much trying to figure anything out from the details, but simply observing and honoring. Then the delight comes, and delight is always a result of acceptance and appreciation.
Gotta run, got the son and grands coming for breakfast. God bless us all.