Monday arrived, and in the depressing aftermath of a wonderful weekend with friends and family, I spent most of the day in the attic, listening to Tibetan flute music and reacquainting myself with the drudgery of the work week – the way almost every Monday has gone for the past two decades. As I responded to e-mails and reviewed postings that had come to an end, I heard the muffled calls of birds outside the window. Turning the music down, I paused in the work day, taking a few slower breaths, and listening to the birds.
It was the sound of spring, and the birds had changed their music from lamenting winter to celebrating something on the way. Their birdsong was more cheerful, anticipatory rather than reflective, and I got up from the desk and moved to the window. I unlocked and lifted it, feeling the release of a winter spent mostly closed. The birdsong carried inside, along with a light breeze that gave the merest hint of warmth – the delicate whisper of spring.
