No Promise of Tomorrow

Perhaps some of the purest love in our lives comes with no promise of tomorrow.

Sometimes love begins simply because another little life matters to us.

There are mornings when I wake up because somewhere outside, a tiny bird may be hungry.

I put out a feeder on my patio, and over time, feeding the birds that visit has become a small part of my everyday life.

And there are days when I cannot be there. I have work. I travel. I leave home. I cannot cancel a business trip because the birds might come looking for breakfast, and the feeder cannot always stay out. Life occasionally asks me to be somewhere else.

I love them.. knowing they may not return tomorrow. And I love them… knowing that sometimes, when they do return, I may not be there.

There are no promises between us.

Holding What Cannot Be Held

When a bird lands on my patio, I find myself watching the seriousness of its small affairs—the high-speed acrobatics of hummingbirds zipping in and out, the effortless coolness of a nuthatch hanging upside down, or a toddler dove quietly napping on the floor, completely unbothered by the world.

I watch their quick, deliberate hops, the impossibly tiny legs carrying a life that knows nothing of my schedules or obligations. There is an absurd, instinctive urge to reach out, gather that tiny creature into my arms, and hold it close—the same tenderness that arises when we look at a human baby and suddenly discover more love than we know what to do with.

But these little ones cannot be held.

So perhaps my heart holds them instead.

The Sweetness of Missing

Whenever I am away from home—whether I am traveling, shopping, or simply walking down the street—my eyes naturally find the birds around me. Every little bird I notice reminds me of the ones who visit me at home. I remember their movements, their little feet, their familiar presence.

And I miss them.

But I have discovered that I like missing them.

Missing is not always an emptiness. Sometimes it is love remembering where it wants to return.

Returning to My Birds

I have lived alone for a long time. Yet now, when a trip ends, I no longer simply think, I am going home.

Beneath that, another quiet thought surfaces:

I am going back to my birds.

Of course, they are not really mine.

They belong to the sky.

Love does not always ask to be kept. Sometimes it loves most beautifully by letting something remain free.

What They Have Quietly Taught Me

They may come tomorrow, or they may not. I may put out the feeder tomorrow, or life may take me somewhere else. There will be mornings when I am waiting for them and they do not come, and mornings when perhaps they come looking and find nothing waiting for them.

Still, today, they are here.

They land. They eat. A finch dines patiently while a nuthatch claims its turn; juncos move across the floor while hummingbirds weave through the air. They remain completely occupied with whatever matters in the mysterious world of a bird.

And then they fly away.

Perhaps impermanence does not make love smaller.

Perhaps it teaches us to love today more completely.

We spend so much of our human lives trying to make love permanent. We want assurances. We want people to stay. We want tomorrow guaranteed before allowing ourselves to completely love today.

But these tiny creatures arrive with no such guarantee.

They do not have to stay for me to love them. They do not have to belong to me for them to matter to me. And perhaps that is one of the purest things they have taught me about love.

Perhaps love does not always need a promise.
Perhaps love does not always need to stay.

Sometimes it simply says:

You are here today.
And my heart is so happy that you are.

We Will Both Be Home

So when you fly away, I will let you fly.

I will remember your tiny steps. I will look for your brothers and sisters in unfamiliar skies. I will miss you with a smile.

And when the trip is over and I finally return home, I know one of the first things I will do.

I will look outside.

Maybe you will return too.

Maybe I will see those tiny legs again, hopping across the patio as though neither of us had ever been away.

And for one more little moment, neither of us will belong to the other—

but somehow,

we will both be home. ❤️🐦