Every Bush Aflame
Light in Winter
The firethorn bush is keeping me alive—
The one flocked with birds who burn,
But are not consumed.
Who neither toil nor reap
But perch in hungry expectation,
Trusting every branch
To the full weight of themselves
Little knowing how light,
how held they truly are—
Little guessing what it is
To ask, and not be filled.
It was a dark and dreary Wednesday afternoon, and my mind was filled with thoughts of how broken I felt.
“I’m too depressed to even wake up on time—how can I call myself a writer?”
“What if am never able to overcome this and I stay flattened by sadness forever?”
And then I looked out my kitchen window, at the giant bush filled with birds that I’ve stared at every day since my husband and I moved to our new home, and I began to breathe again. The breath and pain I hadn’t realized I’d been clenching in my chest started to soften. I turned to my husband and said,
“That bush is saving my life.”
“Write about that,” he answered.
There is a particular kind of round, waxy berry I’ve only seen in the Pacific Northwest, and each one is the color of flame. I have literally pulled over my vehicle or stopped a walk mid-step just to stare at these captivating berries and take photos. It sounds silly, I know, but the color of them feeds my soul.
When we moved into our home this October, I looked out my kitchen windows at sunset and saw those berries. My tired heart was re-kindled with thanks, for I knew in that moment I was loved, seen, and known, by the One who created the fire berries—the One who speaks through bushes of flame.
The berries are gone for the season, but the birds who feasted upon them remain—for there is a greater Providence at work. Every morning, my neighbor bundles up in her puffy coat and felted bucket hat and feeds the birds and squirrels for several hours, tossing out seeds and nuts. No matter the weather, she is there. When it rains, she simply puts up her umbrella.
One morning, I walked through frosted grass to the fence which divides our yards, shivering in my bathrobe and slippers. On my tiptoes, I called out and thanked my neighbor for feeding the birds—the birds that remind me of Providence, even amidst the cold dark wet months which seem to have no end.
“Oh! You’re welcome,” she said with a brief laugh, her breath forming a small puffed cloud. “It keeps me sane.”
There is a light that shines even in the dark winters of depression. For me—sometimes—it is as simple as a bush, some berries, the birds, and the hand that feeds them. Looking out my window reminds me there is life at work all around me, even when Spring feels impossible.
When my eyes feast upon such things, it is enough. And I am full.