Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Category Archives: bird, birds, nest, nestle, comfort, twig, branch, stick, sing, birdsong


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Green.

Dining outside yesterday, alongside an urban, but calm street, the beams of sun, just like the cars, hummed gently, no need for brake or throttle. And I felt simply in it. There was life and motion, not to throw but inspire. A slow dance of body in air. And would I have felt different, being a blade of grass? Reaching. Among. Within. About. 

How do you capture a sunny day?  I’ve been trying. Foolish, I suppose. To be a blade afraid of winter. When all there is, is green. 

And isn’t it the same with love? Not lost. Even in its final winter, there will be spring. I feel the hum of those who have passed. Music in my heart. No need for brake or throttle, it stays alive within me. My ever green. My sunny days. 

The sun beams. And so do I. 

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Beyond the nestle.

I’d like to think I was aware of each twig. Each stick. The constant effort it must have taken, with damaged, sometimes even broken wings. Just to build something that I would be certain to leave. But I’m not sure that I saw it. Does anyone see it while nestled? Mostly, I suppose, I just took comfort. 

Seeing it now, for the gift that it was, continues to be, I can only wonder, am I singing enough? I sing. I know this. But is it worthy? Is it heard above all the noise? Sometimes I hear the humming along, and I think, I can feel it, the gathering of new sticks. The building of new nests. And I think we can build something. Build it together. Joyfully. We who have been given all the tools, all the luxury and comfort, all the support of those who came before us, we have to sing. Sing and gather, and risk each thorn, because the world is listening. Watching. So in need of a nest, an impermanent nestle that holds us, lifts us, and sets us free.  

We must be the gatherers. The inconspicuous gatherers, preparing the nest. Allowing all the comforts unaware, tucked within the improbable verse, the impossible song. It’s all we’ve been given, it’s all we need to hear.

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