The Note I Did Not Dare to Tug

On birdsong, the via negativa, and how essence reveals itself

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This morning, as if out of nowhere 

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the birds, so clearly audible, yet invisible.

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Their chitter chatter piercing a sky

of such gentle spring blue 

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the kind that asks for a soft attention.

 

Each note hung in the air

separately 

 

If I could truly hear just one 

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just one.

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This poem arrived on a morning walk. Nothing remarkable. Birdsong, a spring sky, the particular quality of early light. I wasn't looking for anything.

And yet.

This is how the thread finds us — not through effort, but through what brushes past in the ordinary.

I have come to trust this. The entry point can be anything. A fragment of dream. A tension held in the body for years. A line of birdsong on an unremarkable morning. The soul doesn't wait for the dramatic or the significant. It speaks through whatever is at hand.

The question I find myself asking is never: is this important enough? It is only: can I be touched.

 

What would you hear, if you could truly listen to just one note?