I've been in this apartment for three years.
Same couch. Same corner of that couch. Same morning coffee. Same back door that looks out at the empty field separating me from a busy road. I sit there every single day — morning, noon, night — and I've never once seen a bird land on my patio fence.
The last couple of days, though?
Birds. Everywhere.
They don't stay long. They land, catch their breath, shake out their feathers, look around — and fly off again. Like, my patio fence is just a pit stop. A soft place to rest before the next thing.
And I cannot stop watching them.
Realistically, in three years, there had to have been birds landing on that fence. Animals. Whatever. And I just wasn't catching it. But for some reason, over the last couple of days, I've stopped what I'm doing multiple times per day. I put everything down. And I watch.
I can't help but feel like there's a metaphor there…
Because I'm in a season where I've outgrown everything I used to use to survive. I used to pray for the peace I have now. The time freedom. And those prayers got answered — just not the way I thought they would. The peace came at the cost of the life I was building in my 20s. And God interrupted that. Life interrupted it. The economy, my health, all of it.
I was forced to slow down before I was ready.
And now I have it — the soft place to land. I'm sitting here. I've caught my breath. I've shaken out my feathers.
But I can't seem to take off again.
I found out a few weeks ago that some birds can fly for hours without needing to land. And some can only go for seconds before they need to stop. (My friends stay clowning me for knowing things like that, lol.)
But what kind of confidence is that?
They always know they can fly again. Even if someone cut down the tree they've called home, they'd find another. They'd land somewhere else. They don't spiral about it. They rest, and they go.
And then Matthew 6:26 popped into my head.
"Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?"
And the passage keeps going — verse 27 hits different when you're in a slow season — "can anyone of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?" No. The answer is no. And I know that. But knowing it and actually living from that place are two very different things.
Verse 34 is the one that keeps finding me, though.
"Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own."
Each day has enough.
Not each quarter. Not each year-end review. Each day.
The birds don't worry about tomorrow's food. They don't panic about where they'll land next. They rest, and they go.
Do birds even panic? Or do they just know there's always going to be somewhere for them?
I genuinely want to go ask them.
(Do birds even have brains, or are they just moving off pure vibes? Asking for me.)
I used to be obsessed with the idea of flowing like water. Fluid enough to move through tight spaces. Strong enough to hold up a ship. The duality of it used to fascinate me.
But lately I've been thinking — what if I just want to be as adaptable as a bird?
Because the common denominator seems to be: just do what you were created to do.
The bird flies. The water flows. Both adaptable. Both only really answer to God. Both gonna be okay even when the container changes or the tree gets cut down.
And me?
I'm still figuring out what that looks like. Still on the fence — pun intended — between catching my breath and actually taking off again. Still not sure which direction. Still not totally sure my wings work.
…I can feel the lesson getting closer.
I can't fully name it yet. But something about those birds keeps stopping me mid-sentence, mid-scroll, mid-day.
And maybe that's the point.
Each day has enough.
Still in progress…
All Is Well,
— Ashlee
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