Saturday, June 25, 2011



All morning long, in my comings and goings,
out and back again,
he was sitting on the edge
of his nest,
the only home he's known,
deciding whether to jump.

The other baby robin was gone,
along with Mama and Papa.
It was just him,
alone and abandoned,
deciding whether to jump.

(Did the big birds
simply wake up this morning
and know it was jump off day?
And when the first fledgling leaped
out into the air that will be her home now,
did the parents follow,
teaching aspects of flight,
leaving the other
to decide whether to jump?)

Curious, I crept around the side of the house
to look at the nest.
And he was gone.
He had jumped into the emptiness,
falling at first,
then, led by instinct,
flapping, careening around
like a drunk,
I imagine,
until he trusted his wings.

(Do birds remember
first flight?
Or, like us humans,
forget jumping after a while
because, like walking for us,
flying just seems eternal?)

How often in one life
do we find ourselves on the edge of the nest
deciding how to jump?
How often we perch,
one leap from a new beginning,
an adventure,
filled with wonder and terror,
knowing everything,
simply everything will be different
once we leap
into what comes next....


"A public celebration
is a rope bridge of
knotted symbols
strung across an abyss.
We make our crossings
hoping the chasm will echo
our festive sounds
for a moment,
as the bridge begins
to sway
from the rhythms
of our

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About Me

some ponderings by an aging white man who is an Episcopal priest in Connecticut. Now retired but still working and still wondering what it all means...all of it.