This morning, as I was moving through some initial stretches, waiting for the tea water to boil, a friend re-appeared. The Tok bird, indigenous to the Mayan lands, magical in its appearance, flew up and perched on the tree outside my balcony.
Shy ones, these. They prefer a quiet conversation. I learned early on in my time here that a dash for the camera or any large, quick movement sends them flying.
Upon my return to the property, a month ago, I was informed that the three Toh birds, in residence when I left, had not been seen for quite some time. At first, I was suspicious because one has to be observant and know where and how to look. Sadly, it seemed my informants were correct.
As I took up the quiet work of rejuvenating the property, reducing the human footprint, speaking with the flora and fauna hereabouts, I wondered. Will they return? Do they remember? Birds can be so 'bird-brained', you know?
What is most magical about these specimens, for me, is their appearance. Not their ability to seemingly appear and disappear at will. Noteworthy in and of itself. But their bright turquoise caps and wing markings, sometimes even on breast and tail. And those tails! Shaped like two twigs, with square feather paddles at each end, these tails swivel and twirl like joysticks. I keep wondering if that is what gave the device its name. Such joy in a feathered package!
This morning, my original friend, I'm sure of it because of the markings, perched just outside. Too early for the blackbirds that now think they own the garden, it arrived with the dawn, just as the sun was making its presence fully felt over the jungle canopy. There it was. Turquoise cap, twirling tail and all.
I gasped and did a double-take, continuing my body-opening isolations quietly and unobtrusively, so as not to startle or disturb my visitor.
It hopped to one side then the other, showing me both profiles, in case I hadn't been sure of its identity. Then it nodded just once in my direction, twirled its tail and flew off around the building, silent rather than calling its signature 'mot-mot' call.
These avians frequent the cenotes that dot the Yucatan peninsula. They substitute water features built by humans as need arises, but prefer the isolation and quiet of the canopy. To see one is to glimpse magic itself.
My friend and I? We acknowledge the light, the magic within one another, and quietly, as in Patanjali's "How to Know God," we begin to know one another again.
Just like the rest of us, as we shift and morph and change. I am grateful that our dance of connection continues.
What is a morning without magic?
Note: The coloring on these birds varies by tribe. My little friend looks more like a small robin, but with a turquoise cap as well as the markings in the photo above.
Cenotes are openings into the underground water system that floats the Yucatan peninsula. Though there is a definite rainy season here, the water element comes from underground. It is largely hidden (except in coastal areas of course). Perhaps that is one reason these winged ones are so shy. They like to live nearby.