Swallowing the pills that start my every morning, I lie in bed waiting for them to settle. To take effect. For the shaking from the nighttime medications to wear off and my body to be ready.
Ready to move. Ready to incline more than the constant sitting position of my sleeping hours. Ready to swing my legs to the floor and lift myself up to balance against the bed and make my way to the walker.
So much waiting. So much preparing. So much anticipation to do something as simple as taking my first steps of the new day ahead.
And this day, as I listen to the rain tap my windows and I slowly rise to see if my sore feet will hold me, I freeze.
I hear them.
Singing.
The birds.
The birds that had abandoned me in the cold of winter, in the days that were dark and cloudy and too cold for the meek voices of the calling wren.
They had returned.
I was afraid to move, afraid that somehow they would sense a presence on the other side of the window. Afraid I would scare them away.
Scare away the singing hope of spring. A spring I had been waiting for even a fleeting sign of returning. Eventually the birds left to serenade another home and I moved on with the next steps of my day. But their song brought me hope of what's to come.
The waiting makes the singing hope of tiny birds sweeter somehow. The long, cold winter days make us long for a spring that we appreciate more because of its absence.
And so I begin Lent. I begin the waiting and the quiet and the absence of song… knowing that hope awaits. Hope returns. A mere 40 days away…
