Broken, scattered, holy

I'm sitting in my aunt's sunroom, reading while regularly looking out at the birds on the bird feeders. A few minutes ago they were everywhere, clustered on the feeders, hanging upside down to get the suet in the netting, on the bench that serves as a rail for the deck. And then I shifted in my seat, ten--maybe twelve--feet behind the glass patio doors, and they all flew away. Shazam.

One of those fellows is now atop a pine tree at the edge of the lawn, a visible sentry, while the flocks of I-don't-know-what-they're-all-called return.

I'm out in the country and there are way more birds than can be found even on an active June morning in my urban back yard. I've seen a bright red, rather regal cardinal, a blue jay, a red-wing blackbird, and a lot of grey-brown winged things of all sizes that I do not have the eyes or expertise to tell apart. Their wings are sometimes fluttering hard to accomplish a landing near the food. I can see the wind they're fighting in the direction of the blowing snow.

Soon the people will be up in this house--with their age-old ways of bumping together, breakfasting, chatting, remembering, some fighting new battles with canes and walkers and hearing aids. Mostly loving one another, but with the occasional sandpapery brush-up.

Gregory Boyle (of Homeboy Industries fame) writes in "Barking to the Choir" (my morning reading), that God/the Holy appears in all kinds of unexpected, small things. He watches for them with the attitude of the Buddhist who held the whole glass and declared it "already broken."

The birds are here. the birds have already scattered. They've done so several times as I type this.

God/the Holy remains.