The Wren in my little house

Day 25

After I wrote this today,

Dear Corporations,

I am your worst nightmare. Because your plastic junk has no power over me.

Because I refuse to be enslaved by your latest i phone, pretty clothes, shiny car, and fancy appliances.

Because I destroyed my credit on purpose, and refuse to play the game.

Because I delight in the spots on the back of a toad, and the song of the sparrow.

Because I have my sights set on you

and I won’t back down

until vines cover your decaying factories

and the stuff, and the junk, and the things you pedaled,

lay broken and discarded,

like so many pieces of trash,

and all they’re good for

is piling up in mountains

that get covered with trees and plants,

and the snow runoff melts and makes rivers.

And we splash in them under the hot sun

and the memory of what once was,

gets buried somewhere deep inside,

and it finally loses it’s hold over us.

A sweet Wren squeezed in through a tiny crack in the window and flew around the rafters of my little house.

I saw her noticing the bird’s nests we’ve collected over the years, and she looked at the paintings on the wall from her high perch.

Revel and I stood watching her from below, opening the door to give her an escape route, and as I called Wil to tell him about our visitor, she flew right out the door.

But before she did, she appeared to give me and Revel an almost imperceptible nod,

just a wee tilt of her tiny head,

as if to say,

we have her blessing.

Thank you for listening,



And tonight we are so lucky to have a beautiful guest post from none other than my dear and talented friend, Michelle J. The incredible photos are hers as well. Thank you Michelle! Love you.

Mourning is personal. We each mourn in different ways, whether we cry, lay in bed, leave flowers, light candles, pray, shriek, sit in silence, write, sing, share memories, or wear black.

Wearing black is just one part of it. Maybe when you wear black, the other colors of the world are more vivid, more authentic. Maybe you see them differently because they’re outside of you. Maybe they reach right in and touch you in your black places. Colors that will be lost to us as we bring our budding planet to its demise. Vivid, radiant, dazzling colors. Not red #40 and yellow #5. Not the sludgy deep green invented for Nyquill. Not the princess pink of nail polish tested on rabbits. Not the blue of chemically-chlorinated pools.

Real colors. Earth’s colors.



The crimson wonder of the elusive wild ginger flower. The ruby red of the bloodroot’s broken stem. The garnet trillium. The scarlet of a slaughtered deer’s fresh blood.

The flush of bleeding heart flowers. The pink of the russet fox’s little tongue. Hibiscus flowers that reflect the blush of our own cheeks.

The brilliant orange of the changelings, maple leaves. The golden hour of the flaming sun, when it yawns over treetops at the end of a day, setting our skin and everything around us ablaze. The copper coral of sunrise over a bed of butternut squash. The unmistakable burnt orange of chicken-of-the-woods.


The sunshine yellow of ginkos, their golden puddles of leaves at the base of each tree. Fuzzy golden bumblebees. Razor sharp yellow of the yellow jacket. Sunkissed honeysuckle, dripping with amber nectar. The shine of cruciferae, the mustards. The sunny dutchman’s breeches.

The emerald of a beetle’s back. The curious sage hue of lichen on pine trees. The viridian of a sunken forest pool. The early green of jack-in-the-pulpit berries.

The brilliant cobalt of the jay’s feather. The bold azure of the mile-a-minute berry. The blazing blue of the indigo bunting. The vast expanse of sapphire sky that greets us each morning. The twinkling navy nights.

The purple of echinacea’s powerful cone. Ripe, juicy mulberry-stained hands. The dramatic flash of a passing purple martin. The sweet, sweet plum. The periwinkle lightning of a thunderstorm.


The delicate, lacy pearl of dwarf ginseng. Lily white of the deer, just after its hide has been pulled back. Milkweed pods, bursting open into the wind.

The sleek, quiet black of the black rat snake.

The shy brown of the camouflaged praying mantis. The tan of the fawn nursing beneath its mother.

The moment at dusk when every color lines up for its nightly, ritual sunset. Evening creeps in above us, but the sunset gathers all the colors together to say goodbye (and here we see the inspiration for that princess pink nail polish).


Mourning is about seeing more. It’s about honoring what has left us, and celebrating what we have left. Mourning is figuring out how to push onward while never, ever, ever forgetting. We mourn because our bodies have to, our hearts have to. Because we WANT to. Because if we don’t, we can’t move forward. We mourn because we are brilliant, bright, loving, and colorful beings who are touched by every loss. We mourn to show that it’s okay. It’s okay. It will be okay.

One response to “The Wren in my little house

  1. Pingback: Colors | Mockingbird Chronicles

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