The Song of Life

The rain has quieted things down this morning. It was pouring just a little while ago as I lay warm in my bed in the dark in my new bedroom. Now it has stopped and the contrast sounds silent. Just the cooing of a morning dove and the slight ringing in my ears as I strain to listen. And, of course, the distant hush of traffic.

Pleasant Street, where the Temple is and where I lived for the past eleven years, is a main thoroughfare between Worcester’s downtown and the northwestern suburbs—Paxton, Holden, Barre and beyond. The street where we live now is a couple blocks up from Pleasant Street and significantly quieter, yet still, as I have reported, the rush of traffic on a quiet morning is the background drone, even through closed windows. But it’s only in the morning, when my ears are tender with sleep and before the busyness of the day that I notice the ubiquitous drone.

This inevitable sound of civilization is modified by the morning doves and accompanied by a usual morning chorus of assorted and mostly invisible birds. I’d like to be an invisible bird—singing with no accountability—no reviews or opinions to worry about—no social media presence to be cultivated if one is serious about spreading one’s words. As an invisible bird, I sing only to sing. The song arises in me. I am the song that I sing and there is no before the song, or after the singing. In the moment of the call there is only the call—a blessed relief from the self I unavoidably drag along for most of my human life. (Was I good enough? Am I good enough? Will I be good enough?)

Yet, even now, I catch glimpses of the song that I am.

A friend who was recently part of a public ceremony in which he was celebrated, spoke of how amazing it was to hear from others who recounted small moments of being touched by his presence. Unknown to him, his song has been singing itself for all his life. We humans are finely tuned into each other.

Your song is not just the song you think you are trying to sing or hope someday to sing or are sure you cannot sing. Your true song is the one that sings itself through you. It began the day you were born. It’s the one you can’t help singing. Unbidden, each morning it arises on its own and through you. Each of us, regardless of intention, sharing as freely as the invisible birds that populate the trees around my new house.

This song, this light, is mostly invisible to us. We can never step outside ourselves to see who we are. We are invisible to ourselves and yet are invited to sing anyway—to let ourselves be who we already are—who we can’t help but being. It’s not about sophistication or knowledge or advanced degrees or power or prestige. It’s about the wondrous functioning of the universe through each of us.

What if this is really true? Or what if this is even partially true? What if the ancient internal critics that so fiercely defend your inadequacy are less true than the beauty of the song that you already (helplessly) are?

The crows squawk, the sparrows chirp and the doves coo. An airplane flies overhead and then disappears.

(Excerpted from forthcoming book Wandering Close to Home: A Year of Zen Reflections, Consolations, and Reveries. September 1, 2024.)