To Sing at Dawn and to Sing at Dusk

“Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.” - Terry Tempest Williams

For me, truth feels like a swirling confetti river branching out in blooms in my chest. It is every shade of green as the sun hits pine needles at golden hour. It is the deep blues, purples, and pinks of a snowy summit at dusk and dawn. It is the yellow gold dusting of a field of poppies. It grabs something deep within and I feel intense joy, trust, and faith as the river starts to flow from my eyes.

I’ve always felt things more intensely than most, or rather I seem to externally show my insides more readily than most. Life comes at me full tilt, with no filter in place between my eyes, ears, heart, and skin. I can’t help but burst into tears of joy or of grief, or squeal with delight in moments of beauty, gasp in moments of shock or surprise, or wiggle my toes and dance in moments of happiness.

While I never thought there was anything “wrong” with these exclamations, when I was younger I started to be made fun of for them. There is something poisonous about the adverb “too.” You’re “too emotional, “too intense,” “too sensitive,” “too much.” It leaks into my veins and where blood and life was once free flowing and swells into blockages, buildups creating armor.

Overtime these minor blocks that once could be hurdled have merged into major blockades, concealing joy, muting voice, and damming tears. This has caused a numbness, a stuckness that puts my body at a standstill with each moment. I am frozen without feeling.

As the desert winds and sands weather my skin, they seem to be weathering these blockades as well. The feeling coming back feels like a breath of fresh air, but I seem to only be able to capture the inhale. It’s ironic, how opening to joy can strike fear into my core. It comes in and remains stuck, afraid to let go, afraid it will never return. Afraid of the exhale, the push of the waves.

I see myself as a kindergartner on the soccer field, pretending to be a dinosaur and roaring at anyone who would try to take the ball from me. I see her fierceness and imagination. I see myself as a junior in highschool giving it my all running laps during a 30 minute conditioning session, dreaming of playing lacrosse in college. I see her determination, her grit, her passion. I see myself as the 25 year old crying while watching Disney movies or documentaries. I see how she feels for others, how she can embrace beauty. I see these wonders, and yet a part of me hides in the corner, afraid to be seen by others, afraid of being “too” invested.

But the greatest gift I realize, that I can give to my world is to be totally, intensely invested. The world is made of abundance, in leaves on the trees, in drops of rain or flakes of snow, in hands to hold and hearts to love. There will always be more. To receive the gift of life I must dive in, dive back into the flowing rivers of my veins. The waters may be icy, they may be warm, but either way the most important thing is to feel and feel it all.

It takes so much more energy to conceal my howl at the wild spotlight of a full moon, my giggles of love for a beautiful friend, my tears at how I have hurt others or others have been hurt. It takes so much more energy to dam back the waters of your spirit than to let them flow. This is vulnerability. This is where life and beauty intersect. This is the meeting place of love, truth, and freedom. This is where the reminder lives.

The birds remember. Do you?