Today in our garden we saw a wondrous sight: two hummingbirds, in the midst of what appeared to be a dance. I watched, enthralled, as first one, then the other zoomed from one corner of the yard, out to the lot next door, and up into the huge looming eucalyptus. I’d never seen more than one hummingbird at a time, and couldn’t believe my luck as they followed each other – loud chip-chips ringing through the air – and settled on the inner branch of a fruit tree. Remarkably, they sat still on the branch next to each other, then one gently pecked at the other’s bill, and the other in turn flitted about its partner until they once again took off.
This week, I was saddened by the death of an old friend, and with the impending mortality of my elderly mother always on my mind, I’d been thinking a lot about what it means to be alive. About what separates my friend from me now: this breath entering and leaving my body, this day, this life.
Three years ago, B. and I got married on a secluded beach in Northern California, a few loved ones at our side. Watching these two hummingbirds dart through this moment together made me appreciate anew being able to share this life, my own loved one at my side.