Trying to wake up . . .

Such Singing in the Wild Branches by Mary Oliver from Owls and Other Fantasies (Beacon Press)
It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness—
and that's when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree—
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing—
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky— all, all of them

were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last

for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then— open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.


One way I know spring is here is that I wake up in the morning to the sound of birdsong-- a cardinal on the back fence, a flock of robins searching for breakfast under the lingering leaves on the ground, a lone duck flying over the house on its way to Rock Creek Park.   I listen and I remain tucked in my bed, firmly earth bound, slowly trading sleep for waking.

A few weeks ago I was listening to a radio show on consciousness.  The host was interviewing a philosophy professor who said when she passes her students on campus she grabs them and asks, "Are you awake?"  Startled, they generally reply "yes" without thinking about it too hard, however when she asks them if they were awake before she met them, they're not quite sure. 

Today is one of those days I feel as if I've been drifting through the hours unaware, asleep.  I need someone to grab me and ask, "Are you awake?" Or maybe I need to open the door and listen for the birdsong before it floats away into the twilight.