“Western Meadowlark” by Greg Schechter is licensed under CC BY 2.0.
The rare bird lands, and you encounter it. The shock of beauty demands a reckoning. Do you continue your life as if its not here in your midst, vibrant, yellow breast refracting light toward you, beckoning?
The rare bird is my muse, the love who turned her eyes toward me and woke me up–to desire, to myself, to possibility.
The rare bird is the spirit who flutters past and lands in the branches above. You can’t see them, but now you know they are there.
The knowledge of presence shapes the perception of entire landscapes.
I saw that bird land in my midst, and I have never been the same.
I can’t pretend anymore, to be who I am not, to believe what I do not know, to follow where I do not want to go.
What does faith look like when we’re not pretending?
What do relationships look like when we’re not pretending?
When I’m true to what I know–a rare bird has landed among us.
Stop everything to see it.