Stand very Still by child grower Annita Woz

Robins Hummingbird

The drawing featured here is a creation of the talented Robin Phelps of Verona, Wisconsin.

Sometimes, if you stand very still you can be a part of something.  It is unseen, has no name, cannot be bought or sold.  Breathtaking in its simplicity, yet hardly worth mentioning because by the time someone else is there to experience it with you,  the moment passes, and all that remains is the imprint on your mind, your willingness to share, and no one near enough to accept your offering.

As she wanders through her chores of another weekday,  her ipod is turned off, no conversation swells around her three foot space of privacy.  She is not prepared, but she sees, was not anticipating revelation, but was receptive.  She gets no answers, but still keeps asking.

A boy is crossing the street’s evening rush hour traffic.  His father, walks along the left side. He is smiling and encouraging the eleven year old.  The son, in the middle of four lanes of traffic now,  balances on the meridian, laughing, he is smiling one of those grins that reaches all the way to his eyes.  He has darted past one car, holds his place separated from his father and from his destination,  and lands safely on the middle strip of grass.  Silently, the woman  watches as he leans off the curve, takes one solid step, but then sees a faster vehicle bearing down. It is nearer now, and interrupts his plan to leap across.  The boy backs up and puts his feet solidly back in place, next to each other, off the pavement and will not move.  Then, with a quick glance at his father, he judges the cars, and again dives into the pathway after one has passed, but before the next is a danger.  He crosses in the span of a few seconds, in a space where no cars exist, where just the wind and his guesswork cuts a path. He clears with his own creation,  the safest passage from the hectic pace of the commuters,  carves a graceful bridge for his ambitions.  He makes it safely, proudly. His father laughs and throws his head back, his shirt blows in the wind under his arms and he claps just once, and bends forward to wave his proud fist in the air.

A small circle of moms sit on their picnic blankets at at the playground, the strollers surround them in a wider circle, all are turned inward with sun strewn hair and baby cheeks all turned toward mothering faces.  The toes of the infants and strolling toddlers, now caught up in a secure belts and fasteners,  keep them suspened from the grass, but they kick with toes to the sky making shoeless heels hit the fabric and the seat rock with their efforts. The babies wiggle and stretched their little chubby legs.  One hand scoops up the cheerio snack and palms a few into a waiting mouth, and the other hand holds tight to the front tray, all concentration,  sure that no o is left unlicked. The stifling stillness of the summer air of August arrives after a strange spring-like July and the need to be in shade and the sun simultaneously causes much consternation and shifting,  but not much real movement at all.   The decision of the moment is whether to run into the sun-filled area, maybe to the bench, warming itself like a cat stretched on a sill, or to simply sit, relaxing,  enveloped by the moving shade that travels nearer as the day moves toward the evening.  The moms do not move their blankets.  The children wiggle and the sun holds its place, witnesses the indecision, and silently, stubbornly, keeps shining.

A flutter of wings and a flash past the patio door and a long beak disappears just as quickly.  Out of the corner of her eye,  a purple blossom has caught her attention.  The fluted flower of the morning glory parked outside on the deck stand still so that a hummingbird can find its center.  With its glorious giving soul, it gives up the nectar to the tiny thing and is no worse for wear for doing so. The morning glory sits, waiting for her to make time to locate a shovel and do the work that will get it  planted on the south side of the yard.  She expects to see it grow to the top of the trellis, to weave its vines around the lattice, to use the green fingers to tenderly reach the top. She expects to see it crawl up toward the sun, and do this slowly,  so she can watch it through the window of the next summer, taking all summer to make its journey as she makes her days labor a moment of simple escape while  she stands at the sink.  She does not move when her mind finally registers what she is seeing.  Yet, in her awareness, something greater than herself makes the tiny wings beat faster and flit out of sight. Her watching is not jarring, the morning glory has not swayed, but the hummingbird moves toward another color and leaves her standing there, drinking it in.

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