The flock of birds flew from beyond the horizon.  Across the water it dipped and darted—a thousand wings catching the sun with every beat.  From where he stood on the shore it looked as if a rainbow had scattered into a million pieces filling the sky with fluttering prisms of color. When it descended around him in a storm of wings, each bird began chattering and twittering all at the same time.  It was an oddly pleasant sound at first, yet it soon overwhelmed him.  He spun around.  So many birds—some huge, like feathery dragons, others small enough to alight on your finger.  He couldn’t move.  There were birds everywhere.  He couldn’t even swim for the water was filled with birds bobbing up and down in the waves. He could hardly think for their constant chatter rained around him in one gray cloud of confusion.  And then he knew what he had to do.  He lifted his arms like branches and stood—still as a tree in the morning light.  And they came, bird after bird landing on his outstretched arms.  After they had settled upon him he slowly drew his arms into a circle in front of himself.  It was a gesture of the greatest gentleness, and the birds adjusted accordingly as he brought his arms to an eye level ring.  He looked at each bird in turn and then sent up his own winged prayer.  And then he blew a soft breath at each bird, and one by one they startled and flew away, until at last, one bird—one white dove–remained.  They stared into each other’s eyes with such intensity that neither moved and neither noticed the flock around them had scattered to other shores.  He sat down and let the bird settle comfortably in the open cup of his hands.  They talked all day and night exchanging stories and laughter.  And when the sun rose again over the ocean, he whispered one last thing to the dove and stood, lifting his hands to the sky.  The dove looked at him and cooed its thanks, and then flew towards the horizon carrying his clear and focused vision.  He turned and walked back to the village carrying the dove’s songs and secrets, and together they changed the world.

The stream flowed through the autumn woods, steadily, but slowly.  Trees scattered leaves, like so many pieces of gold into the water.  The stream looked like it was filled with golden ships whirling and sailing to the ocean.  The stream believed it decided its own course, yet inside it knew the riverbanks and the rocks, the tree roots and the landscape all had a lot to do with where it went.  It also knew however, its destination—the ocean—home—that never changed.  And while it wavered occasionally in a pool of doubt (created by the debris left by a storm of doubts) it eventually unloosened and flowed again—but only with the help of the pull of the sea.  Even in the winter when, on the surface it was frozen with fear, just below, it flowed on, refusing to give in.  And with the warmth of the sun it gradually thawed and flowed unfettered—a visible song of hope.  One day it merged with another stream which was also heading towards the ocean.  The other stream broadened the course of the first and together they flowed as one.  After a few miles they hit hard times (which come eventually to every stream) and doubts and fears, failures and resentments clogged their path.  So they went underground, visible to no one but the roots of the trees and each other, and they flowed in the darkness, until they were ready, and when they were, they sprang up together, miles ahead, stronger than ever.  “We all have to make our own decisions,” said the first river, emerging from the ground.  “Yes,” said the second, joining hands with the first, “but we must study the land, listen to the riverbanks, and ask other streams for guidance.  We must decide for ourselves, but we needn’t ever decide alone.”  “A paradox,” laughed the first.  “Indeed,” laughed the second.  And the two rivers, laughing and murmuring their prayers to the ocean, talked and powered the waterwheels of thought as they traveled through the countryside, heading for home.

So there is this tree.  It spreads roots that rise and fall in the surrounding soil like little sculptures of water dragons flowing through the sea.  The wind comes, and the tree sways and leans a little, sometimes a lot.  Birds come, preen their feathers safely in its branches, and then fly away, refreshed for having visited.  Squirrels come and zipper through its boughs like visible laughter.  Sometimes the tree doesn’t expect the intensity of the wind that comes and it whirls in its place like a rooted top.  Sometimes it sways in the evening breeze, slow dancing in the arms of the sky, all night beneath the light of the moon.  Sometimes it scatters treasures into the wind, filling the river with golden coins.  Sometimes it sleeps, barren and dreaming, gathering snow on its shoulders.  Sometimes it blooms fresh buds full of promise and hope, fragrant–each bud a flower, each flower a fruit.  It stands, guarding the newborn’s window.  It reaches down to lift the children on its shoulders where they can daydream and watch the sky through the lattice of its branches.  Its strength stems from its roots, and its roots are named nobility, wonder, grace, determination, blessing, and generosity.  No matter the wind, no matter the season, it stands, sheltering any who wander near, completely secure in being held by the earth, the sky, and the sweeping arms of the galaxy.

The undesirable voice entered the attic.  I stood on a box and shouted, “Get out of here!” The voice only shuddered and grew into two.  I bolstered myself and shouted again, doing my best to resist them: “Get out of here!”  I shouted.  And those two voices, those undesirable, negative voices—grew—they grew into three.  The more I shouted the more they multiplied, and soon the attic was filled with a chorus of undesirable voices all talking at once saying horribly negative, defeated, angry, and fearful things.  And the more I yelled at them to leave, the more they grew.  It was then, discouraged, beaten, and without hope, that I saw a dusty book sitting on shelf.  I picked it up, blew off the dust, sneezed, and then opened it up at random.  When I read the words I was amazed.  Rivers of light and hope coursed through me.  I looked back at the book.  Another line flashed like lightening into me.  I laughed, closed the book, turned to the undesirable voices and said, “What is it you want?”  They were stunned.  No one had ever asked them that before.  They stopped talking.  One of them finally spoke and said, “To help you.  We want you comfortable, in that old place.”  Another said, “To simply be acknowledged, after all, I am only trying to keep you in the place I think is best for you.”  And one by one they spoke, and one by one I listened, and then, one by one, I blessed them, thanked them, and released them.  And as I blessed them, new voices–positive, loving, encouraging, self-affirming voices entered the space.  And the attic glowed, it thrummed with beauty.  After a while, the entire attic was filled with joy.  And whenever one of the undesirable voices entered, I asked it what it wanted, thanked it for trying to help (in its own misguided way), blessed it, and then let it go, replacing it with a new voice—one of love.  I did this by listening and by talking with others about what the voices were saying.  What did I read in the book?  “Resist not evil” and “Love your enemies.”  What I resist persists.  What I hate grows. What I love is transformed into Light.

They fashioned limbs and heads from the points of the stars.  They formed elegant curves and lines.  They rounded parts here and straightened parts there.  They increased parts here and trimmed parts there.  They used their fingernails to delineate patterns of hair and sinews of muscle.  They carved intricate ears like the insides of seashells.  They painstakingly trimmed the ends of the limbs with fingers and toes.  And all the while, they sang.  And all of the while, their song infused the clay with light and remembrances of the sound.

They adorned the figures with concave and convex parts to fit together in exalted ways.  They garnished the eyes with delicate lashes and the lips with a glossy finish.  They patted and pressed, smoothed and engraved, and decorated the figures all over with the tiniest of hairs knowing this would heighten the sense of touch.  They traced spirals on the pads of the fingers and went so far as to bedeck the bottoms of the toes with swirling patterns of widening ripples.

And as they worked, they sang.   And as they sang, enlivening the clay with pigment and breath, they could not help but weep.  They could not help but render these First Ones beautiful.  They could not help but impress them with passions and crown them in glory.  They could not help but pour over them tears of devotion.  They could not help but establish them with strength.  They could not help but invest them with power.  They could not help but saturate them with creativity.  They could not help but embellish them with little kisses and lavish them with hopes and dreams.  And finally, they were finished.

“In your image,” said the Creator, bowing to the Creatress with the woman he had formed.

“In your image,” said the Creatress, bowing to the Creator with the man she had formed.

And the First Ones stood there, blinking in the light.  As things began to focus they found each other’s hands and looked deeply into each other’s eyes.  Mesmerized with holiness, they traced each other’s faces and then, for the first of countless times, looked up at their Makers in wonder.

They had walked all day. Miles they had come taking turns carrying the child. As the mother and father moved cautiously through the darkening woods they ached with fatigue. And when their plodding steps slowed to a halt, they sat down to rest, right there in the middle of the road. The mother handed the child to the father so she could stretch out. The father held the child on his chest and joined her on the cool, dusty road.

Then silently, from the darkness, yellow eyes appeared. The father grabbed the child and sat bolt upright. The animals stepped from the shadows towards them. He roused his wife. They huddled there together, shaking—turning every which way, only to see animals forming a circle around them. The child began to giggle. The father moved to cover his face, but the child brushed his hands away. His eyes widened with glee as the animals moved closer.

The first to reach them was the mountain lion. She carried something in her mouth. It was a rabbit. She laid it at their feet and turned away, yellow eyes flashing. The bear lumbered towards them next. In his mouth were two rainbow trout. He laid them before the trembling couple, snorted and sniffled, and then turned back to the shadows. Then came the heron, looking for all intensive purposes like a tall, skinny butler. He stepped his long, remarkable strides, and in his outstretched wings was held a bowl of pure, cold water. He offered it without spilling a drop. And so, one by one the animals came bearing gifts of wild berries, salads of dandelion greens and edible flowers, and even freshly baked bread from—from—the couple never found out where from. And lastly came the reindeer and the wolf. The reindeer carried a wreath of glowing candles in her antlers. With the utmost care she laid it before them. It illuminated their tear-stained faces. The wolf took his place beside the family and stood guard as they began to eat.

And so that night they feasted on a meal lovingly prepared by the animals. They had never had such a nourishing meal.

After they had eaten and drank their fill, the wolf disappeared into the cave of the night. And the couple laid back in the road to sleep. The darkness was almost complete as they stared exhausted into the tree-branch laced sky. Suddenly the trees leaned forward and down with their branches. The couple screamed, but then realized the trees were opening their arms in offering—they were giving them a place to nestle for the night.

The couple looked at each other and then carefully stood and stepped into the waiting branches. The trees lifted them instantly high off the ground. The air caressed the little trinity of humanity as it rose, higher into the night sky. That night, they slept like baby birds in the gently swaying trees.

It was the child who awoke when he heard the earth singing the sweetest of lullabies. It was a song of crickets and of night birds and frogs, it was the song of the padded steps of animals, it was the song of the river flowing somewhere in the darkness. As he listened, he felt the earth holding the roots of their tree with all of the love and tenacity of a mother swaddling her baby.

And so it was the child who felt the arms of the moon reaching down and lifting them even higher.

Her embrace was like refreshing silver water pouring slowly over them. And as the moon cradled the little family, the child laughed as he watched the Milky Way swooping her star-fringed arms and gathering them all—the mother and father, the babe, the animals, the trees, the earth, and the moon into her gently dancing arms.

And the baby reached up and brushed her face, tracing his fingers through her star-dappled hair. And as he did, his eyes caught site of the universe turning towards them, carrying them along in the perfect folds of his cloak of shadows and light.

And the child laughed. He laughed as he saw the Creator of All holding them tenderly in cupped hands. And as he took in this marvelous vision, he sank into the cradle of his parents arms and knew all of this was within himself. He held it all—the animals, the trees, the earth, the moon, the Milky Way, the universe, and the Creator–in his heart. Within him was one elaborate tapestry of wonder and perfection. He knew he treasured it all inside, and with that thought, he went to sleep in the dear, innocent arms of his mother and father.

Once upon a time Made asked the Maker to teach it about letting go.

The Song