A juvenile robin landed within a foot of me as I sat at our outdoor table, quiet and still.
No fear. Just presence.
Its soft feathers carried the awkwardness of youth, yet it stood steady, curious. I felt my chest soften and a warmth rise—like being trusted by something untamed and near to spirit.
What does it mean when wild things come close?
Perhaps the unseen is testing my stillness, teaching me how to belong without reaching, how to witness without needing to hold.
The robin hopped once, tilted its head, and looked straight at me—eyes dark as seed, shining. In that gaze, a wordless message:
Be gentle. The world is closer than you think.
My breath slowed. My body learned something it already knew but often forgets:
We are part of the same garden.