Letting Go of the Birds -- Winter Descends on San Francisco

The fall is descending on San Francisco and there are fewer birds gathering on my roof, certainly fewer hummingbirds.  You see, I once was adamant that I would put up the best hummingbird feeders and they would come  ("build it and they will come" way of thinking!).  So I put up really good ones, and yes, for a while they were zipping and clicking about, pausing to dip their tiny beaks in the nectar, even standing still on the edge of the feeder.  When I saw them jet through the air, I felt a fluttering inside, and a complete, warm happiness.  Hooray, I now have a hummingbird refuge!  But, lately I haven't seen many.  No matter.  It would appear that this darkening time is one where I am going to be asked to let go of a number of things, as the trees shed leaves and the dark pounces on us at five in the afternoon...

I saw two operas this last week:  Tosca and Cinderella.  Enjoyed both, and even surprised that the fluffy fairytale of "Cinderella" entertained and excited me.  I was thinking that I have been going for a long time now to the opera by myself, and for the most part have loved it. I like being with my own mind and not having to measure up to someone else's thoughts and feelings about music or operas or....  BUT, I find myself now sinking into a melancholy place where I long for company, for more love and warmth in my life.  These two women whose stories I watched on the grand stage were driven by love, and one of them died for it.  I have been missing the closeness of friends and family lately, and then I remember to begin letting go of that longing, because the more you long, the sadder you feel, and it doesn't get you anywhere in the end.  But longing also seems to be an expression of the heart which says:  listen to me.  And we must attend to the heart.

I have lived alone for eight years or more, and have built a beautiful life for myself with a cozy house in a quiet alley filled with art, and a beach refuge up north where I can always hear the roar of the Pacific Ocean.  I've had the freedom to travel, to play music, and most recently to sit down and write a book.  Not bad.  But, as I begin to register the frailties in my body -- some of these speaking more clearly to me now than before -- I find I want more companionship.  The companionship of like minds, I suspect.  I experience some of this when I sit at the bedside of terminally ill people in hospice, or on the rare occasion I sink into a long conversation with an old friend.  My friends are few in number but they are deeply attuned people with whom I have history, and they are treasures in my life.  And I'm hungry for more.  Is this greed speaking now (in the Buddhist sense)?  Is it really not possible to be happy now with things the way they are?

Why is this longing bubbling up all about me, I wonder?  Is it because there are fewer birds in my roof garden, and the little maple outside looks naked and sad, and the cat shows his neediness by marching back and forth on my desk as I work, and I falter when trying to speak my needs to others, as though I may have too much to ask??  Is it because there is less light and warmth out there, and I want to draw into myself like the bear entering the cave?

When I write and when I play JS Bach on my piano, I don't feel the emotional wrenching, but when I play Chopin, I see candlelit rooms, and sad beautifully dressed young women standing in windows looking out as the ailing artist plays his beautiful music for them.  And I remember in these moments how familiar melancholy is, how I knew it the very first time I ever played a Nocturne.  When I eat a good meal and drink a great glass of wine, I don't feel the longing, but when I'm finished,  it comes, as I try to remember what the sensual pleasure was all about.

Birds come and go, beauty comes and goes, youthful vigor rises and falls, and in the middle of it all we try our best to feel gratitude for the adventure of being a human being in this confusing, amazing time.  Yes, come back to gratitude, breathe the cold air in, and reach out to the next loved one who crosses your path.  The winter will run its course, and as Pablo Neruda wrote, "you can never stop the Spring."