Letters from the Catskills: The Hummingbird Knows
A week before I arrived in the Catskills, I was hiking in Georgia with a friend when we spotted a hummingbird hovering between two wildflowers—its wings invisible, its stillness unmistakable.
We paused, breath caught. And then he told me something I didn’t know:
Hummingbirds, though delicate-looking, are endurance fliers. They can migrate hundreds—even thousands—of miles. Their hearts beat faster than almost any other creature. They know how to burn bright and still find rest.
I tucked that wisdom away without knowing I’d need it. Because when I got to the Catskills, they found me.
Six to eight of them, visiting the porch each day—sometimes in pairs, sometimes in a gentle, flitting swarm. They arrived in the morning mist and returned in the golden hour light. I’d sip coffee and watch them hover near the feeder, their small bodies vibrating with an energy that felt ancestral.
Each time they appeared, time seemed to pause. Their wings were a blur, but their eyes held stillness. It was as if they were reminding me: you can move fast, and still be present. You can be small, and still sacred.
They became part of my daily rhythm—tiny teachers in shimmering green and rose gold. I’d see them while journaling, stretching, talking to my mom. Their visits were never long, but always exact. Always enough.
And then, in my final week, I found one on the porch—silent and still in a new way. A fallen hummingbird is a kind of grief I didn’t expect. So small. So perfect. A whole world held in a palm. I buried her gently beneath a bed of pine needles and said a few words—not with sorrow alone, but with awe.
That morninh, I rolled out my mat and moved through a yoga flow in her honor. Breath by breath, I remembered what she had taught me: Stillness is not the absence of movement. It is the clarity within it. The intention behind the flutter. The purpose held in the pause.
Breath Reflection: With the Wings of a Hummingbird
Find a quiet moment. Sit or lie down in a way that feels restful to your body. Place one hand on your heart, the other on your belly. Let your eyes close gently.
Begin with three slow, intentional breaths. Inhale through the nose…exhale through the mouth.
Let your breath be light—but grounded. Let your mind soften, like wings slowing midair.
As you continue breathing, imagine a hummingbird:
Small, bright, radiant.
Heart racing, yet fully present.
Moving quickly, but never aimlessly.
Let your breath echo their rhythm:
Inhale: Clarity.
Exhale: Ease.
Inhale: Purpose.
Exhale: Surrender.
Stay here for a few more breaths, letting yourself feel held. Know that, like the hummingbird, you can carry great strength in a small body. You can move fast, and still be rooted in intention. You can hold stillness—even in flight.
Whisper as quietly or loudly to yourself:
May I move with grace.
May I rest with trust.
May I live with the clarity of wings.
When you’re ready, open your eyes. Carry the hum with you.
