Jimmy Beh

I am not a morning person, at least not by nature. But most mornings, I get up before the sun and sit outside in our garden next to a hummingbird feeder and under a large palm tree with the gentle bubbling of water bouncing off rock and tile in a nearby fountain.

It is winter here in Santa Barbara, so it is quite dark and a little chilly, but I keep showing up with my coffee and rotating books of poetry—right now it is Brian Doyle. Many people call this kind of habit a ritual, and in our increasingly secular world, I suppose that’s true for most. For me, though, that feels a little too “top five habits for a productive day”-y. I don’t do this to feel good (necessarily) or productive.

I do it to dialogue with the silence and rhythms of the morning. I slowly become attuned and attentive to the buoyant tenderness of a new day—hopefully letting my attentiveness later grow into astonishment and expression. Sometimes I can drop right into a sense of connection with the morning and environment—other mornings I struggle to get out of bed and have maybe 15 minutes of roaming thoughts and a sip of coffee before my day starts. 

But I try to let go of guilt or achievement when it comes to this because it is not about stealing time for myself, it’s about preparing myself to be open and present with the people, places, and things I will encounter throughout the day. It’s also about allowing the One who brings the dawn to hold me and look at me and I at Her. No tasks or planning. No texts or emails. Just gazing.

Inspired by my recent introduction and reading of the late author and poet, Brian Doyle, I would like to share a brief prayer I wrote during one of my morning sits in the garden. It is written in the same format as Doyle’s “book of uncommon prayer:”

                       To the female hummingbird that sits with me in the morning

She sits precariously perched on the very tip of the top branch of the bush near the feeder. Most mornings her chirping sounds more like throat clearing than a musical performance. Clearly, I do not make her nervous. Just the other morning, it dawned on me that she is always there. Chirping, waiting, drinking from the feeder, and, of course, keeping other hummingbirds away from HER feeder. While I meditate, I can hear (and almost feel) these delicate birds charging and dodging each other like fighter jets.

Did you know the first colonial settlers called the hummingbird the joyas voladoras?—flying jewels— A fitting name. They have pencil eraser sized hearts that beat 10 times per second, they can fly backwards, and they can apparently fly for hundreds of miles without stopping. But they are, indeed, delicate, and when they stop flying their bodies begin to shut down. And if it is a cold night their hearts and metabolism slow to a point of putting their lives at risk. 

And, yet, me and this hummingbird seem to find each other each morning—celebrating our triumph of another night by awaiting the warmth the sun. I wonder how she sees this world—what her perspective is with a racing heart that buzzes her through the air. A world charged with the grandeur of God and yet limited by flesh and feather. How wonderful it is to have this creature accompany me. It is hard not to see the Creator in this hummingbird… I wonder, selfishly, if she sees any of Love’s fingerprints on me? In gratitude for this hummingbird and all its brothers and sisters that make my morning and our world more beautiful. Amen.