April 2025 (Vol. XXXVIII, No. 4)

Dear Friends ~ The kids and I stare out the window, watching birds. The juncos are my favorite, presenting in sooty suits, bowing often in a jaunty jig of seed seeking. My son enjoys the sparrows, who descend in numbers that send our feeders reeling. My daughter likes the showy birds—right red cardinals and silence shattering jays.

I am mesmerized in a manner that conjures memories of my own childhood, when wonder came in waves of such intensity it could knock the feet out from under my day, leaving me belly down, drawn to the details of a blade of grass or a grasshopper's legs. As I grew in body, mind, and vision, my sights widened to bigger pictures; a perspective that helped me find myself in academics, civics, and spirituality.

Now, solidly in middle age, I find my focus homing in, returning to small wonders. The booming voices are deafening and ever present, but it is the tiny twitters that speak to my soul. The varieties of grass growing in my garden. The patterns of planets, moons, and stars. Any tiny trait about my children. The small things matter. Seeing the small things requires some semblance of sacred silence.

I would not say that my hope in big ideas, worldwide networks, or colossal change is gone. Only that I cannot see these matters mattering without the love of small things; without the noticing of what is most close, and most consistent, and most quiet.

When I look for the fullness of all I hope for in this world, for my children, for myself, it falls short. But when I witness something real and present, however small, I know hope.

In Spring, it is all little things. A slender crocus popping up here. Delicate buds scattered across branches. Bees, sharp-set but small, showing up in numbers undeniable, turning a season. One fruit, one flower, one faithful phenomenon unfurling at a time. ~ Katie