Robins are a reliable character on the scene of transition from winter to spring. One day, there’s one standing on the grass cocking its head at all angles looking around, and then there’s another and another. All dark heads and rust-colored bellies, their legs blurring as they skitter across the yard.
Up close, they look rather grumpy. A collection of light speckles ring their eyes and something about the slant of their faces into the beaks give a distinct expression of displeasure. If I’m going to head down the anthropomorphic route, I’d wonder why they are ornery. Are they in fact misunderstood, much like the iconic character of Grumpy Cat, who was actually very sweet despite the sullen downward-facing arrangement of her face? Do they resent their role as heralds of spring, as it’s never easy to be the ones trailblazing into a new season? Or are they simply hangry from subsisting on a dry winter diet, using extra energy to stay warm and survive while dreaming about juicy worms and grubs?
As nature’s signs of a new season spring up, I try to notice signs of the changing season in myself. In the sometimes unrelenting responsibilities of modern life that press in no matter what the season, it’s easy to be disconnected to the rhythms of nature that occur in my own being. As I struggle with the time change with an extra cup of coffee, my biggest effort is to slow down and observe, to quit running through the constant to-do lists in my mind.
What should be cleared out? What should be cultivated? Where does room need to be cleared to plant this and time made to water that and how do I tend my soul to be refreshed, allow fresh new shoots to grow and bear fruit?
Things to think about as I go through my day today of spreadsheets, dishes, piano lessons, chopping vegetables, emails. Prompting myself that in the midst of these daily tasks, I remember to carry the intentions of being present, paying attention, soaking in the sun, and continuing to wonder about the inner life of robins.
Sindy Hankins 