The Hummingbird’s Way
Years ago, at my wedding, a dear friend gave a toast in which she likened me to a hummingbird darting around the pool deck at water polo practice during our high school years. I can still recall this version of my former self spilling with youthful energy and confidence—embodying the lack of fear that comes with knowing one can fly instantly in any direction they choose.
Nearly two decades later, and a few months before making the unexpected decision to attend a yoga teacher training course, I sat under the pole barn at the farm where I worked part-time selling vegetables. Life had taken rigid detours. Rules and chronic pain had stiffened my joy. I found it hard to simply hum. The peach I ate during this ten minute break dripped with a dream-like sweetness that transported me back to the small orchard of peaches in which I had grown up. The fuzz coating the skin of the peach invited fuzzy memories of freshness, of vitality—of wonder. If I tried hard enough, I could faintly remember the child who ate as many peaches as she wanted simply because that's what felt right.
And while I sat there on my break, peach in hand, juice dripping down the ravines between my fingers, a hummingbird darted into my awareness—coming so close to my face, as if she longed to look deeply into my eyes. Like this she hovered only inches away for what seemed like an eternity within in an instant. Then, she flew away. I would not have thought much about her if she had not come back. While watering my home garden, hummingbirds often come to visit in this way. Perhaps she longed for some of the nectar I held. Perhaps she had a nest nearby. Yet, she returned a minute later with such tenacity, such persistence, such sway. For the next week or so while I went about my workdays, hummingbird returned multiple times. So close she came as if she had something she needed to say.
A few nights ago, after the first day of yoga teacher training, I dreamt of a hummingbird. The day had cracked me open as the asanas and pranayama began working their subtle magic.
She hummed instantly into my awareness, right in front of my face. The ferocity in which she came calling announced the urgency of her message—her insistence more alarming than her usual playfulness. This time, she did not fly away. Sensing she might be in trouble, I extended my cupped hands together just in time for her to drop in exhaustion. In this cradle she lay gasping, and I feared she would die. The feathers on her breast continued rising and falling in convulsing pain as if I witnessed her sob her life away—releasing the weight of whatever it was she had carried for so long.
In a state of reverence, I awoke—contemplating everything and nothing—just before dawn.
