Every evening, just at the the witching hour, the Night Hawk flew on strong wings over the field of wheat and shrilled her cry into the air and dove wild and free. Jabbing the air for morsels of food.
She flew so high, I could scarcely see her but her piercing keening call echoed downward and she would dart into view in a blink.
She came. Every evening and sometimes late into the night that whole summer and no one asked her to leave .
The space was hers. The wind her companion. The air her buoyant cushion and the mosquitos her meal ticket.
Wide open spaces spoke to her heart and only when she was free, diving above the golden wheat fields, did she really feel alive.
GLORIOUSLY ALIVE.
Sometimes coming alive means risking appearing totally mundane. Totally foolish. Totally erratic. Totally raspy.
TOTALLY SHOWING UP IN THE PLACE YOUR HEART FEELS MOST ALIVE.
We fly.
We dive.
We follow the currants of our heart. And we embrace the space that opens for us. The provision. The strength. And the wonderful, wonderful freedom.
TRUE FREEDOM IS NOT A WORD. IT’S A FEELING.
“If the Son has set you free.
You are unquestionably FREE.”
Wildflower Muse 