The swamp angel’s song

It was late in the day when shards of light shot low through the dim forest, lighting rock and moss and the bulky tangle of ancient roots beneath my feet. Only my own muffled footfalls and the occasional snap of a twig beneath broke the stillness. It was the peaceful hush my mind had been longing for. Maybe it was the time of day. Or the slant of light. Or the wistfulness of late summer. But it seemed to me that it was a holy ripening stillness—leaning toward something to fill it. The very air was preparing for something.

Then it came: a high, lingering note of a flute followed by a trill. I learned later that this was the rarely heard song of the hesitant hermit thrush. Too ethereal to grasp and too penetrating to forget, it floated in my memory for nearly 20 years.

Last summer, I had an opportunity to return to that forest. Walking toward the trailhead, I yearned for that long-ago experience, for the feeling of being visited by something that sounded so pure and holy. But my timing seemed wrong, and I began to think about how too much hope can get us in trouble. Without hopes, we don’t have disappointments, so I tried to return to the frame of mind I was in 20 years before: expecting nothing in particular and simply walking in gratitude for the present moment. The hermit thrush had come then as an unexpected gift. So, I reasoned, I didn’t want to miss today’s gift by focusing on the good of the past.

However, when I came upon the park ranger, I heard myself ask a little too enthusiastically, “Do hermit thrushes still summer here?” He nodded with a broad, encouraging grin.

Still, as I headed in the direction he recommended, I tried again to damp down my hope. “No,” I thought. “Just take the hike.” I started naming plants in order to divert my attention.

As I headed up Hemlock Ridge Trail, the words swamp angel darted into mind. I remembered it as the nickname for the hermit thrush. Then, weaving among boulders, I thought of a line from a poem by Mary Baker Eddy: “Seeking and finding, with the angels sing: / ‘Lo, I am with you alway,’—watch and pray’ ” (“Mother’s Evening Prayer,” Poems, p. 4 ).

Here’s what her words came to mean to me as I pondered them along the Ledge Trail: The I that was with me at all times was nothing less than God, the great I AM, that includes each of us—the endless and infinite divine source of all creation that is continuously unfolding its own desires as its grand creation. So, if this great I AM is infinite and eternal, how could there be an additional little I with separate desires that were unfulfilled? In the oneness of I AM, “seeking and finding” become one. When we seek something, we find it as we watch (pay attention) and pray with the understanding that what we seek we already have. Then we can let our desire rest in the trust that it will be manifested in a way that speaks to us.

I remembered a phrase from the opening pages of Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, “Desire is prayer; and no loss can occur from trusting God with our desires, that they may be moulded and exalted …” (Mary Baker Eddy, p. 1 ).

Now I saw that my yearning—to feel again the inspiration that came through the thrush’s music—wasn’t a hope to be denied in order to avoid disappointment. Although it was a modest desire compared to much more serious desires of the human heart, still it was a desire meant to be entrusted to God.

This is what filled me as I walked along the bay and finally looped back toward the trailhead. I finished the hike knowing that, yes, the thrush’s song was always with me, but more, that God who is the divine source of what I experienced through that song was always with me inspiring me anew each day.

As I left the trails behind, walking through the gate and down the park access road, I passed a final narrow strip of woods bordering the field where my car was parked. Just as I reached the very end of that wood, I heard it.

And just like so long ago, it stopped me in my tracks: four long, clear, flute tones, each followed by a trill. He was at the top of the canopy singing. Then came a flutter of wings as he dropped down and perched ten feet in front of me. Although I couldn’t make out all his markings, he was close enough for me to see him through the leaves. He was in a place the ranger would not have expected. And, although known for his reclusive nature, he had gifted me not only with his song, but also his company.

I watched him through the leaves for a time. Then, as I climbed back into the car, I knew I would have that moment of grace forever. It doesn’t need to be repeated. The song the “swamp angel” sings echoes the eternal ever-presence, “Lo, I am with you alway” (Matthew 28:20 ).