Murmuration

I drive through Rockland everyday on my way to work. It’s a sleepy working class place with an old school downtown area with small shops, businesses, and restaurants. I see the Moms, Dads, Grandmas, and Grandpas shuffling the young ones out to the bus stops in the pale pre sunrise light, bundled up against the sting of winter, some still in their morning robes. I pass a pond that has geese taking a bath, I’ve seen herons fly over my head. Then there are the starlings, fluttering in joyful unison, something called murmuration I have learned; unique to their species. Or is it?

Of all the scenes I see each day, it is the starlings who steal the show. I feel cheated if I don’t get to see them do their little flutter, flutter, glide, flutter, flutter, flutter, glide. Apparently, each starling can influence approximately seven other starlings in their vicinity which then translates to the spectacular display of swirling black against early morning and evening skies. I wonder if these flocks I see will disappear soon to seek out warmer shores. I hope not. They are as much a part of my morning rituals as my tea (or coffee, depending on the day).

As a single parent these past few years, I have had many come to Jesus moments with myself—some I have written about, some I have not. Yes, believe it or no, there are some tales I have not yet told. In these quiet moments of self awareness and reflection (dare I say prayer), I have attempted to discern and define a path moving forward. That hasn’t been easy; hours of therapy have led me closer to answers and then always seem to produce new questions. That’s why I decided to not quit therapy as I had professed to try doing in a previous issue last year, a time when I was delusional and downright dumb. Why ever did I think I was done working on myself?

I know I will never have all or even some of the answers. But, what I do know with certainty is what I hope to be—a good human, raising and teaching good humans, deserving of all the good things life has to offer. Those starlings have it figured out and, maybe, we’re not that much unlike them. We find our flocks, flutter and glide in unison with those upon whom we have the most influence, and hope that the good we do ripples in a few different directions. As my siblings and I prepare to take on a new era of caring for one another, perhaps in ways we never anticipated, I hope that I will continue to learn from the simple beauty that is my morning commute—humans living and loving, birds pushing to flit through another day, a pink sun rising in order to coax a shivering earth to allow its warmth in after a long, cold night. Murmuration. I never knew that word existed until this week; now here I am writing about it. For the first time in forever, I look forward to my morning commute and my path moving forward. I think the starlings agree.