In and out of sleep, thoughts, ideas, details about work have conquered the entirety of my brain early on a Saturday morning. I look at the clock – six something. Tossing, turning, I grab my phone and email myself the ideas swirling around in my head, in hopes that writing it down will have the same effect as Dumbledore’s pensieve, clearing my mind to make room for falling back asleep.
I thrash the covers back in frustration and head out into the living room, grabbing a blanket to wrap around my shoulders on the way. Maybe the couch will be better. Then I catch a glimpse out of the french doors, into our backyard and beyond.
Complete stillness. Not a movement. Fall coloured leaves hanging still off tree branches. Morning sounds muffled by the fog that’s enveloped my favourite statuesque evergreens. The world is still. The world out there doesn’t care. In the grand scheme of things, the work I do, the things I was fussing over, really have no relevance. There are billions of people in the world. Billions.
I am reminded of my complete insignificance, and it’s a comfort.
Out of the mist comes forth the smallest creature, whose little presence embodies the exact opposite of stillness. My friend, one of our neighbourhood hummingbirds. He sees me sitting on the other side of the window, darts back and forth at my now seated level, his wings fluttering and heart beating over a thousand times a minute.
And this small, equally insignificant little creature makes me smile. He leaves me in awe every time. And I feel my head clear as thoughts about work are pushed back into a semi-conscious compartment of my brain. Exactly where they should be on a Saturday morning.