The Cardinal Didn't Know It Was Doing Me a Favor

There was a cardinal on the fence this morning. I don't know how long he'd been there before I noticed him, I was just sitting on my bed doing nothing, which is something I'm still getting used to doing without feeling guilty about it. The lists are done. The math is done. The packing is mostly done. And apparently what fills the space after all of that is: staring at a bird for twenty minutes.

He was very red. That's not a poetic observation, I just mean it, he was aggressively, almost unreasonably red against all that July green, and he kept doing this thing where he'd tilt his head like he was considering something important. I did not move. I did not get up for water. I did not check anything. I just watched him.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the difference between waiting and being still. For the past however-many months, everything has felt like waiting, for the acceptance, for the savings number to zero out, for the list to close. Even the good moments had this hum underneath them, this low-grade not-yet feeling. And then this morning there's a bird on the fence and I'm just... here. Present tense. Not waiting for the cardinal to do something, not hoping he stays, just watching him while he's there.

He flew away eventually. Obviously. That's what birds do. And I sat there for another minute after he left and thought: okay. Maybe I'm more ready than I thought. Not for the trip, specifically, for whatever the trip is supposed to teach me about paying attention to things before they go.