Can we just talk about how the rain froze on the windshield this morning for a minute? Like a tiny murmuration of starlings – that breathtaking, swirling ballet you sometimes see those delicate birds perform by the hundreds in the low sky.

I used to see murmurations all the time, on my way home at night taking the back way to Baden, on Ira Needles Boulevard. And as I sat in the endless traffic there, I would often wonder if anyone else was as wowed in that moment as I was.

If you knew the kind of day I woke up to, this tiny frozen scene happened to be just what I needed. I think it was meant just for me.

I’ve had the best year in so many ways. But with it has come some health challenges that I’m working through. I was on my way to the hospital this morning when I took the photo, but I didn’t notice the murmuration until a little later. As I was putting on my mom’s big, old turtleneck sweater, which always feels like a hug, I had asked her to send me a sign today. And, of course, she was right there with a tiny glimmer of beauty to echo back what’s happening inside of me – and all around me.

Her first sign of the day was this delicate, frozen flock of birds on the window; everything else in the frame a blur. I took it as her way of saying “remember the birds,” because that’s how she so often shows up. The next thought that flowed to me was — when you think of them, remember that you are being held. You are being carried – by something bigger than yourself.

The way those birds move together, each one supported by the others, mirrors the way my friends and family and colleagues – and even my dead mother – have been circling around me as I navigate this new territory. She, of all people, knew that there was a sense of collective strength – in not having to facing anything alone. She is the one who taught me that it’s okay to be strong, but not so strong that you can’t let others in. And this was my other-worldly reminder.

Murmurations move in an exquisite dance, without a single leader, yet everything stays beautifully co-ordinated. It seemed like she was reminding me of trust and flow. And trust in flow. That I’m part of a much bigger rhythm – like one of those individual birds that moves with the others as one living shape, and it’s okay — expected even — to lean into the support around me sometimes. The dance will carry you too, she said.

I love that she sent me a little moment of beauty this morning. She had it show up right when I needed it. A little breath of awe, right before a hard thing. Something a mom would do.

We’re so close to the winter solstice now. The turning point when the year reaches its deepest darkness. And then quietly, the light begins to return. Even though nothing looks different right away – the first extra minute of daylight is barely noticeable – you still know the direction has shifted and, from that day forward, things begin to brighten.

The convergence of it all just feels meaningful today. And I think I’m just feeling deeply grateful to be reminded, on any given day, by people I love – both here and gone – that in the deepest dark, we all have wings. We are all carried. We are all lifted. 

And the light, faithful as ever, is already on its way.