crit-crit … crit-crit … I finally notice the sound and lazily look up from my book. Lazily, because I’m out in the quiet of my patio reading, the bright sun warming my skin – my arms, my head, my face, my legs – relaxing me from the outside in, as I lose myself in reading about a year in Provence.
crit-crit … crit-crit … I casually scan my little patch of garden around me, looking for the source of the sound. The fountain next to my chair burbles happily, the relaxing sound of the water spilling over, adding to the peaceful reverie I am in. The ocean breeze gently rustles through the garden, lightly tinkling the wind chime, whispering through the leaves of the jasmine growing up and over the arbor, dancing through the ficus tree that hangs over from next door like a nosy neighbor leaning over the fence.
crit-crit … crit-crit … Ah … there you are, my friend. Next to the lavender that has grown larger than the spot in which it was planted, I spy her sipping at the crimson blooms of the salvia, the plant’s little florets dancing at the tips of long wands. She dips her long beak into each flower, her compact, brown body suspended in mid-air, the bright flash of ruddy red on her chest appearing as she moves from the salvia to the rose, abundant with graceful red buds ready to open.
crit-crit … crit-crit … Very slowly, I put the bookmark in place and quietly lay my book on the glass table next to my chair. This is a "moment", something I want to pay attention to, to be fully present to. Moving my thoughts from the story of a time-is-of-no-consequence lunch in a Provencal village, I now watch the hummingbird as she deliberately leans into each rose bud, taking in the nectar, her wings beating in a whir. The sun shines on us both, the breeze lifts again as I watch, peace and relaxation – and gratitude – filling my being.
crit-crit … crit-crit … crit-crit … crit-crit …