A Fine Sermon

At times we all have attention deficit disorder to varying degrees, and that may be truer these days than ever.  I try to cut myself some slack when I find I am staring out the window more often, thinking about not much.

My colleagues know that it’s not unusual for me to be distracted to the point of stopping mid-sentence when I see a raptor out of the corner of my eye. So, it wasn’t that unusual that I was captivated by a white-headed bird perched in one of the trees on the lower part of the cliff. Her head made her conspicuous among the leaves in mid-autumnal wardrobe change. From where I watched, she didn’t seem that big until I put a pair of cheap binoculars on her. Whoa. Was she a bald eagle? An osprey?  Come on, turn to me, let me see your face. Alas, she stayed still, lost in her own private worship of the river.

I stood watching her for five or ten minutes, telling myself I needed to get back to work, but I longed to see her more clearly and to watch her take flight, as I knew she eventually would. Did I really have better things to do? I suppose that might depend on who was being asked. My shoulders started getting tight from leaning against the window ledge with the binoculars pressed to my face.  Ah, there, she spread her wings and turned her masked face my way. Oh divine osprey, you lured me, not for the first time. But she was just shifting in her pew, resettling for a longer meditation, and I was becoming impatient, antsy to leave church. 

Here’s the thing about nature’s divine goddesses; they don’t change their rhythms to suit anyone. They will be still as long as necessary, take flight when the time is right and soar when it’s time to soar. I settled in for what turned out to be a long sermon that, in the end, refreshed my memory about natural rhythms, about patience and stillness, really bringing it home when she finally spread those awesome wings and flew north along the Hudson. Hallelujah!