Timeless Thrush

The very first thing this mind wants to do when it wakes up in the morning is to know what day it is. Why does it not linger in the timeless state of awareness for a little while, before insisting on remembering when and who it is?

This morning it was awakened by the song of a wood thrush. The song was made up of five phrases repeated regularly, the only variation being the entry point, sometimes the second phrase, sometimes the third, usually the first. Toward the end of the song session, the order began to fall apart, become more random. But before the mind became aware of all of that, it was simply listening to the song without analysis, in a half sleep.

The very first thought was, “What day is it?”

A pause.

Then, “I don’t know what day it is. Do I have to get up? Do I have something I have to do?” No “I” in the first thought, but already in the second thought “I” have come into it and become a bit panicky.

Pause. The mind is waking up. The thrush is still singing, not heard so well now that “I” am engaged in figuring out what day it is.

It comes: Saturday, July 4. I could lie in bed continuing to listen to the thrush, but it is too late. The mind is awake. It is picking up things it was thinking about as it fell asleep. It is thinking about what needs to be done. It is generating anxiety about some of those things. It is recreating its sense of self, as it does every morning, sometimes in a moment, sometimes a bit more slowly.

Why not just lie in bed for a while, listening to the thrush without thought, analysis, comment or question? Why do I need, so urgently, to know what day it is, to know what needs to be done, to know who I am? But the deed is done, the quiet listening is over, the thrush is singing, the song is analyzed, but no longer is it well heard. Is the mind now awake, or did being awake last only a few moments before it fell into the trance of itself? Meanwhile, the thrush is still singing.

One thought on “Timeless Thrush”

  1. I had a song thrush in the yew tree for some years, and then due to the tree dying somewhat I reduced it. The foresters urged me to leave on high branch however dead it seemed, or the thrush would leave. I ignored their advice at my great loss of the beauty of the song thrush song. I sometimes hear him/her on a telegraph pole nearby but not the same personal conversation that I was allowed to listen to for hours previously. It had a friend across the meadow which consistently and regularly replied and I would sit entranced! It was one of the joys of the garden.

Comments are closed.