The Roar of the Chickadee

I was just outside in the sun, it being just past lunch, when a breeze ran by from the ocean, jostling the vines on my balcony.  Every plant is flowering and the soil is damp, redolent of pungent living things.  A chickadee is yelling its small head off, shouting its song to the stars buried behind a thick periwinkle sky, and he is unnoticed by many.  And yet, the song of the bird is layered over the nuanced fragrance from young plants and the ocean nearby, and together the message is bold and clear.  Life is everywhere.

What is it that grips my attention exactly?  The angle of the sun is rising every day, flattening shadows as it reaches its zenith, rainstorms have gone away, and the sun's warmth is urging the swell of buds and unfurling of petals.  But, like the shouting chickadee, each single flower goes unnoticed.  The volume of song and the intensity of color as one flower joins its many cousins in a color shout of their own has reached a critical mass of beauty that is now undeniable:  You must notice it.  Otherwise you are surely blind and deaf.  The day is so beautiful that even if it were not seen or heard, it would be felt and that is enough.

Life is on the march.  The urgency of its pace is unique at this time of year, its footsteps a drumbeat made up of infinite small hearts and veins of pulsing sap.  Abundance is akin to possibility; no one and nothing can deter it.  Too many small voices and too many small energetic  living things are responding to the urging of the sun for them to be subdued.  The shouting chickadee whose head is thrown back as he summons his own chirping roar of invincibility is one of a chorus of shouting voices.  The energy of life is now eager and free to rise until it can rise no more.