Lessons from Humming Birds

I had just arrived from a warm Bombay to the rainy winters of Sunnyvale, California. There were fewer daylight hours. It was cold, gloomy, and I was alone.

I had also fallen in love, swimming in the possibility of what could happen next. But as the days went by, the darkness seemed to consume that light of possibility.

I often spend time in my backyard, but during the rains I mostly look out the window. Three lemon trees grow back there. The lemon tree about six feet from my sliding glass doors produced the fewest lemons of the three. But that winter, it became home to a family of three hummingbirds.

I always observed them from a distance. I never opened the glass doors.

I watched the mother protect her eggs, keeping them warm from the cold and dry from the rain. At one point, I had a fleeting thought: should I put an umbrella over the lemon tree?

But I let the thought go, solidifying my position in the process as just an observer.

One of the most beautiful things I noticed was that the lemon tree somehow had a leaf growing right above the nest. Maybe the mother hummingbird had taken this into account when finding the ideal spot. But I like to romantically think that the lemon tree was taking care of its guests.

I still remember the first time I saw tiny beaks emerge from the nest, restless and eager, waiting to be fed by their mother.

Hummingbirds are already so small, so it felt extra special—and very cute—to watch two baby hummingbirds grow up.

This new life growing in my backyard, in the middle of all that gloominess, gave me some sort of hope. It brought a little light into my life. Something to look forward to when I woke up in the morning.

One day, I saw one of the baby hummingbirds sitting on top of the nest, facing the big tree in my backyard.

It was so small. So frail. So new to the world.

It hung out there for a few days, still getting food from its mother. And then, one day, it did something it had never done before.

It took a leap of faith.

It jumped.

And then it flew.

It flew to the big tree and stayed there, almost as if waiting for its mother to see.

That was my first lesson in courage.

Don't be so fearful of the unknown. Sometimes you just have to convince your mind to jump. Only then do you realize you can fly.

Over the next few days, both chicks were out jumping and flying, getting food intermittently from their mother. They became harder to spot, but I could always hear them—their high-frequency, insect-like chirps.

And then, over the next week, I rarely saw them. I rarely heard them.

I had to come to peace with the truth.

This was my second lesson.

Some beings come into your life just to take you from one place to another. They were never meant to stay. They were meant to fly away.

It's in their DNA.

And letting go is one of the most important lessons.

Imagine if I had caged up those baby hummingbirds so they would always be close to me. (I would never!)

But the hummingbirds taught me something else: appreciate the people and beings in your life right now. You never know what will happen tomorrow.

And if they go away, let them go.

Be grateful for the time you spent together.

Loosen your grip.

Relax.

Enjoy the sunshine on your skin.

It's spring :)