Listen to the Nightbirds Sing
The thirteenth-century Sufi poet Rumi knows what is required of us at this holiday season:
No more words…
Stay quiet like a flower.
So the nightbirds will start singing.
The nightbirds – a symbol of our deeper self; that which understands even beyond our conscious being, that there is more to our existence than what we perceive. But to hear the singing, we must be quiet. We must let go of our preconceptions that tell us the world and our place in it is exactly what we think or want them to be. We must listen; be open; be ready to hear a more sublime music.
We must be like the child that is always there within us, the child spoken of by the poet e. e. cummings:
purer than purest pure whisper of whisper so,
so big with innocence…
flower of holiness, a pilgrim from beyond…
This is the time of the year that has given us this gift: the chance to suspend our disbelief – if only for a season. It is a grand time of year that allows our minds and hearts to leave the everyday routine and play with the arts of the seemingly impossible. In truth, the Winter Solstice celebrations encourage a creative and healing venturing.
One of my favorite holiday cards depicts the season in an amusing way. Santa and his eight reindeer are trapped in a tree, hanging by their reigns – which look like suspenders. They literally have gone out on a limb!
Their belief that they can deliver the goods to all the kiddies on Christmas Eve has been suspended – if only momentarily. Even Santa and his entourage now can stop for a moment and listen for the song of the nightbirds.
Yes, even St. Nick and his deer need time if only for a season, to rest with Rumi and listen to the birds of the night; to meditate with Keats to the nightingale who the poet addresses with:
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget…
The weariness, the fever, and the fret…
Oh, but doesn’t it seem that for some at this time of year, “the weariness, the fever, and the fret” are heightened?
Whereas it can be a special time that allows us to be vibrant, sensitive, open, hopeful, eager, and astonished.
I personally need angels, and wise people, and shepherds, and a guiding star to get me through life with purpose and equanimity – and they come unexpectedly; even unbidden. They are the gifts of life itself – all symbolized by the birth of each of us into this wonderwork we call Earth.
And because we do have this wonderful time of year, may we realize that we are listening to the nightbirds sing when we work a little bit harder to make things a little bit better for others.
When we contemplate in front of a mellow fire and get misty-eyed, remembering when we were children and watched our parents get misty-eyed when they contemplated in front of a mellow fire.
When we let go of the disappointment we feel because things are not going our way, and instead rejoice in the moment. And have hope that life has meaning, no matter what.
And most especially, when we realize that there are so many of our fellow travelers on this globe who have little at this or any time of year, so how can we refuse to give the gifts that would ease their burdens?
Indeed! It is the time for Christmas, Hanukkah, Solstice, Kwanzaa, Diwali, a multitude of wintry celebrations around the world, so listen for the nightbirds. They are calling out, wanting you to hear them!
Hear them and you will be touched by wonder and by empathy for those who need your concern and efforts.
Tell everyone, tell them unabashedly that the nightbirds wait for them, too.
Tell them to wonder at the mystery of creation; tell them to seek love when hatred abides; joy where there is sorrow; justice when there is injustice; peace when there is conflict.
The nightbirds are singing, can’t you hear them?
Despite the death and destruction around the world and even at our doorstep; despite the hardships that have come to all of us at some point in our lives, may we listen for the nightbirds.
The nightbirds are singing. They are telling us that:
From ancient times until now
At Christmastide, we give.
The essence of the gift:
Our very self.
But what is this gift about?
Giving; receiving.
It is all interlaced:
A spiritual place.
It is the gift of the ordinary,
Coming down on angel wings.
NOTE: Don Beaudreau is our Lakeside Living Editor, and an author of twelve books. His latest novel is nearly finished, and is a story set on Cape Cod, MA.
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