“Be surprised.”
It was a way, each new day, she chose evermore to live; no longer shaping life to contort of an expectation or in limit and confine to preconditions and perceptions.
Be surprised.
One never knows what will be until after it is lived. Why stress and force before it does when all the process casts is worry?
She listened to the morning song of a bird outside her window.
When bird had first began the making of its nest, she did not want the mess—but she liked its voice; she liked its song and the idea that something of nature and wild would seek and choose to make a home of hers, arrived on wing and home-found settle in her urban—domestic—dwelling; that, this time, it was wild and not she went in seek and flight.
From liking, she came to love: the voice, the song, the bird—wild’s presence in nest, flight and return, at home that was her own—and of the love, she dealt with the small mess of nest knowing she could not have the firsts without the last.
A living home was better than pristine. Life is often messy.
The mess was not so bad, not for all the goodness that came with, arrived on seek and settled wing and flight.
Like bird and spring, she too lived season of change.
She didn’t know what she wanted.
She thought she did, but now she didn’t.
Be surprised.
And so she’d be. She rejected expectation, course and end of a foreseen way.
She lived open to the guiding, open of the spirit, and she thought of the bird and the nest it’d made, eggs laid that soon would hatch bringing further mess but, too, new voices to the song.
She thought of her home and an open room, nesting too in way for what had not yet come but for which she still believed in faith would be.
Be surprised.
She vowed to be.
And so she lived, carrying on in her day to bird’s morning song; seek and arrive of wild on wing, in nest and make of home at hers, that saved her from seeking flight.
