We too are love

Photo credit: Marianne Møllmann 2024

The birds have been disappearing, my mother tells me as soon as I arrive on the island.

It is true that it is eerily quiet in the morning, more quiet than it has ever been. No blackbirds, no sparrows greet the sun or clamor for seeds at the feeder.

The internet informs me that sparrows have less shelter now that fewer people keep barns. The blackbirds all over Northern Europe have been affected by a virus.

This feels almost like non-news to me, as if it’s just the next step in this process of massive change we are in. As if I had always expected the birds to go next. I tell my daughter at breakfast: “And here’s another lovely legacy we leave you, a world without sparrows and blackbirds.” The irony is so obviously misplaced and she is not amused.

And still, as I sit this morning in silence, as I search my soul for despair, I find none.

Yes, I see us suffering, creating suffering, almost celebrating it as something worth living in and for. I see us descending into greed, upholding structures that isolate us, justifying as moral our separation from each other and ourselves. The wars, the genocides, the hatred that is required for us to accept the disparities that can only end in premature death.

I see us so clearly in that moment.

And because I do, I also see the rest. The love that flows like water, always finding a way. The community we seek almost despite ourselves. The compassion, the empathy, the art and beauty we create from nothing with our hands. The hope that lives in our bones.

Today, the day after the winter solstice, we have one more minute of sunlight. In 6 months, the days will get shorter again. This is the ebb and flow of centuries too. Species coming and going. Trees reaching towards the skies or dying and turning into firewood or mulch. We are water, we are hope. We cannot help ourselves. We too are love.