"When the Jenny Wren Sings" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“We are each of us a note in the great song of the universe. Alone we are sound. Together we are music.”
— Unknown
When I was young—growing up in a house nestled among trees and seasons—my parents were bird watchers. They had their well-worn bird books within arm’s reach and binoculars always nearby, ready for the next visitor to the garden or woods. Their excitement, especially in spring, was contagious. I can still see the joy light up their faces when the tree swallows returned, those shimmering creatures with white breasts and iridescent green backs that dipped and danced through the air like living jewels.
They built wren houses—small, humble dwellings nailed to fence posts or tucked beneath the eaves—always hoping to attract those bold little birds. I remember them hearing a bird’s call and rushing to their books for identification. They would marvel at each visitor, as though greeting an old friend.
As a teenager, with a teenager’s oversized certainty about how the world works, I found it all rather quaint—perhaps even a bit silly. But now, with years behind me and a softer view of life, I understand. Their love of birds wasn’t just a hobby. It was reverence. It was wonder. And much more of it settled into my soul than I once realized.
To this day, when a bird sings, its name often springs to my lips without a second thought. The clear whistle of the cardinal. The flute-like warble of the oriole. The robin’s cheery notes. The echoing hammer of a woodpecker. But there was one song that made my parents’ hearts melt, and now makes mine do the same—the bubbling trill of what they affectionately called the “Jenny Wren.”
They once told me the bird was named after Jenny Lind, the beloved 19th-century opera singer known as the “Swedish Nightingale.” I’ve since learned that the term “Jenny Wren” technically refers to the Eurasian wren, not the North American house wren we watched flitting through the lilacs and hedges. But facts can’t always undo the tenderness of memory.
To me, the Jenny Wren will always be that sprightly, bright-eyed little bird—tail tipped upward, voice bursting forth with a song that seems far too big for its tiny body. A song that still carries the voices of my parents. A song that brings them back to me in a wave of sunlight and sound.
This morning, as I opened my French doors to the rising sun, the world greeted me in song. The percussive rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker set the rhythm, while the wren's clear melody danced through the air, joined by the golden tones of an oriole, the vibrant call of a cardinal, and the sweet murmur of robins. Each voice distinct. Each voice essential. And yet, together, they created a unified chorus—a mighty choir welcoming the day.
And as I stood listening, it occurred to me how much we humans are like these birds. Each of us has our own voice, our own story, our own song. But rather than sing together, we divide. By religion. By country. By culture. By who we love or how we live. We are taught to see “the other,” rather than seeing ourselves in each other. And that, I believe, is a travesty beyond comprehension.
Imagine a world where we sang together. Where we didn’t reduce each other to labels or borders or dogmas. Where your joy was my joy. Your freedom, my freedom. Your suffering, my sorrow. A world where we saw not strangers, but siblings. Not threats, but fellow travelers. Where we let our songs rise—different, yes, but beautifully harmonious.
Some might say such a world is naïve. That it cannot happen.
But I say—why not?
The Jenny Wren sings not for power or pride, but because it must. Because the morning is here and the song is within it. What if we too sang because the world is beautiful, and life is precious, and love is still the most powerful force we’ve ever known?
Yes—what a wonderful world it would be.
~Wylddane
— Unknown
When I was young—growing up in a house nestled among trees and seasons—my parents were bird watchers. They had their well-worn bird books within arm’s reach and binoculars always nearby, ready for the next visitor to the garden or woods. Their excitement, especially in spring, was contagious. I can still see the joy light up their faces when the tree swallows returned, those shimmering creatures with white breasts and iridescent green backs that dipped and danced through the air like living jewels.
They built wren houses—small, humble dwellings nailed to fence posts or tucked beneath the eaves—always hoping to attract those bold little birds. I remember them hearing a bird’s call and rushing to their books for identification. They would marvel at each visitor, as though greeting an old friend.
As a teenager, with a teenager’s oversized certainty about how the world works, I found it all rather quaint—perhaps even a bit silly. But now, with years behind me and a softer view of life, I understand. Their love of birds wasn’t just a hobby. It was reverence. It was wonder. And much more of it settled into my soul than I once realized.
To this day, when a bird sings, its name often springs to my lips without a second thought. The clear whistle of the cardinal. The flute-like warble of the oriole. The robin’s cheery notes. The echoing hammer of a woodpecker. But there was one song that made my parents’ hearts melt, and now makes mine do the same—the bubbling trill of what they affectionately called the “Jenny Wren.”
They once told me the bird was named after Jenny Lind, the beloved 19th-century opera singer known as the “Swedish Nightingale.” I’ve since learned that the term “Jenny Wren” technically refers to the Eurasian wren, not the North American house wren we watched flitting through the lilacs and hedges. But facts can’t always undo the tenderness of memory.
To me, the Jenny Wren will always be that sprightly, bright-eyed little bird—tail tipped upward, voice bursting forth with a song that seems far too big for its tiny body. A song that still carries the voices of my parents. A song that brings them back to me in a wave of sunlight and sound.
This morning, as I opened my French doors to the rising sun, the world greeted me in song. The percussive rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker set the rhythm, while the wren's clear melody danced through the air, joined by the golden tones of an oriole, the vibrant call of a cardinal, and the sweet murmur of robins. Each voice distinct. Each voice essential. And yet, together, they created a unified chorus—a mighty choir welcoming the day.
And as I stood listening, it occurred to me how much we humans are like these birds. Each of us has our own voice, our own story, our own song. But rather than sing together, we divide. By religion. By country. By culture. By who we love or how we live. We are taught to see “the other,” rather than seeing ourselves in each other. And that, I believe, is a travesty beyond comprehension.
Imagine a world where we sang together. Where we didn’t reduce each other to labels or borders or dogmas. Where your joy was my joy. Your freedom, my freedom. Your suffering, my sorrow. A world where we saw not strangers, but siblings. Not threats, but fellow travelers. Where we let our songs rise—different, yes, but beautifully harmonious.
Some might say such a world is naïve. That it cannot happen.
But I say—why not?
The Jenny Wren sings not for power or pride, but because it must. Because the morning is here and the song is within it. What if we too sang because the world is beautiful, and life is precious, and love is still the most powerful force we’ve ever known?
Yes—what a wonderful world it would be.
~Wylddane
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