What If We Remembered?
songbirds, wildflowers, and the quiet things we forgot
When was the last time you heard the song of a bird—truly heard it?
Not just as background noise, but as a melody woven into the fabric of the world around you.
When was the last time you noticed the buds unfurling from the branches, stretching toward the sun after a long winter’s sleep?
Or the last time your eyes lingered on the wild chicory growing by the roadside, its indigo petals opening with the dawn?
We live in a world of motion—constant, relentless motion. Our days are measured in notifications, in texts sent and emails answered, in packages arriving on our doorstep. We move from task to task, thought to thought, barely lifting our heads from the glowing screens that dictate our schedules. We stay within the bubbles we've built for ourselves, safe, efficient, disconnected.
But truly—when was the last time you noticed the song of a bird?
Once, not so long ago, we moved through the world differently.
We worked hand in leaf with the land, not against it. Nature was not something to be tamed but something to be honored. The cycles of growth and decay, the rhythm of the seasons—these were sacred, woven into our very survival. We whispered prayers to the gods of Fertility, of Harvest, of Death, knowing that we were a part of something vast and wild and mysterious.
Now, we barely notice the plants at our feet, quick to drown them in chemicals, quick to erase what does not fit into the neatly trimmed edges of our world. The wildflowers—once celebrated, once woven into remedies and rituals—are now seen as something to be tamed, controlled, or forgotten.
And yet, the songbirds still sing. The buds still bloom. The chicory still grows, untamed and defiant, reaching for the light.
All we have to do is look.
Once, not so long ago, we moved through the world differently.
We watched the sky to know when rain would come, listened to the wind to hear the whisper of change. We knew the land—not just its shape but its language. The way leaves curled before a storm, the way the scent of earth thickened before the first frost.
We walked barefoot in the fields. We spoke the names of the plants that grew around us—not weeds, but medicine, but food, but kin. We reached for the dandelion instead of pulling it from the ground. We plucked wild mint and tucked it into our pockets, crushed chamomile between our fingers just to breathe it in.
And now?
Now we barely notice the green world at our feet. We call it overgrown, untidy, wild in a way that must be tamed. We drown it in chemicals, pave over it, cut it back before it dares to bloom. We exile ourselves from the very world that made us.
But what if we returned?
What if, instead of rushing past the wildflowers on the roadside, we stopped to learn their names?
What if, instead of pulling the dandelion from the earth, we let it stay?
What if, for just a moment, we let the world in?
Because the songbirds are still singing. The buds are still blooming. The earth is still waiting.
For us.
This was a bit of a wandering thought—something that tumbled out of me, unplanned, like wildflowers pushing through cracks in the pavement. I hope it finds you well. I hope it stirs something quiet inside you.
Maybe just for a moment, you’ll pause. Listen. Notice.
And maybe—just maybe—it will reignite that small, steady flame of connection to the world just outside your door.
-Agy
Oh, how I loved reading this! The forgotten beauty in nature—so often overlooked, yet so deeply deserving of recognition and reverence. There’s something truly magical about noticing the quiet, sacred details of the world around us.
Because I am a smoker, and because the front 'yard' of our urban rented house is a bit of a jungle, I hear the birdsong almost every morning. Chickadees in particular have quite a lot to say... sometimes I don't sleep, and am outside when all the birds sing up the sun, a special story, every time.