My neighbourhood is worn-out by yesterday’s storm. There are broken branches everywhere and the snow looks dirty and out of place. We woke up in a cold house, but with electricity, so we decided to make the morning special and have a breakfast at Cafellini before barely making it on time to school. On my way back (there is no driving, because the driveway is covered in snow and we already changed to summer tires) I heard the loud, insistent song of the cardinal. With every step, the sound got louder until I finally saw him – the beautiful red bird perched on the hedge of the last house on our street. He was singing, unperturbed by my steps or by the wet noises of the cars. Somewhere across the road, unseen to me, another cardinal was answering him. It went on for a long time: two cardinals, one visible, another invisible, singing back and forth. They continued, as I moved on, through the chirps of robins, sharp cries of grackles, joyful noise of sparrows and a single cry of a blue-jay somewhere at the distance.

I think there are two ways to wisdom, both equally exciting. One is looking inside: a deep exploration of one’s own story, origins, relations and ancestors, digging through layers or trauma and wisdom, discovering who we are in time. The other is more about space: letting the world to become alive for us – no longer an object or a backdrop for our story, but a place full of stories that are just as important as our own. This is what I experienced this morning, as I was listening to the duet of the cardinals – the world as a living, breathing, unfolding story of life. The cardinals were singing to each other, oblivious to my presence. Their song started before I came and went on after I left. It was guided by the millenia-old instincts of which I have no understanding. My role was witnessing this miracle – an act that had no benefits for the two cardinals, but was life-changing for me.

This spring, my suburban neighbourhood becomes alive, exciting and mysterious to me through the birdsong. I leap from joy when I can trace the song to the singer. I start noticing the patterns of flight. I got all excited this evening, while walking towards the school, when the three crows flew over me and I was able to tell that they are craws and not ravens.

I keep a lot of these observations to myself. The only people able to get excited about my cardinal, crow and raven stories are my children. On the way home tonight, I entertained my daughter with my very inapt description of the grackle’s feathers.

I don’t want to become an expert on birds. I love learning facts about them, but I don’t want to reduce the birds to the science of them: the density of their bones or the span of their wings. I want to keep falling deeply, endurably in love with the web of living things around me. Be they grackles or stones – I want to let them know that I know that they are alive.