Outside my window a bird is singing. So long and loud for a tiny bit of feathers. The song is varied and the notes rise and fall, fluid and melodic. Truly he is singing his heart out. Simple and beautiful. The night is gone and the sun is rising. As he sings, I type.
How naturally the notes come to him. Can I claim that innocent posture? Can I let my words fly out, wild and reckless, like he releases his song? Can I claim the natural beauty of his rhythm and cadence in my flow of words and phrases? Can I write as he sings – exuberant, thankful, not concerned with the cares of the fate of the song? Of who will hear it? Of where it will go? Or even of its value?
Now he is silent. The song is finished and he has moved on from the tree outside my window. Perhaps the song is forgotten, released into the world and abandoned. He has moved on to live his life, gathering berries and seeds, feeding his young, feathering his nest. Soon I’ll do the same with my day. Many tasks are waiting.
Tomorrow there will be another morning and another song, and I must trust that there will be more words to type, to release and surrender. The songs must be sung. Words must be written. Simple and beautiful.
Write your heart out.
Betsy Duffey and Laurie Myers WritingSisters.com
In the morning, Lord, you hear my voice. . . Psalm 5:3