What Happens When You Stop Chasing?

I've always had an affinity towards hummingbirds.

My abuelita used to tell me stories about them when I was little, about how the Mayans believed they were messengers, tiny carriers of wishes, moving between worlds.

She called them little arrows of light, and for a long time, I held onto that.

Recently, though, my relationship with them has shifted a bit.

It's more grounded in the reality of what it takes to actually be still enough to experience them.

The other day, I was in my backyard trying to get one to land on my hand.

I'd bought one of those tiny feeders, you know the ones you see all over social media, people standing perfectly still, hummingbirds landing gracefully like it's some kind of Disney moment.

And I thought, "How hard could this be?" Well, friends, very.

I stood out there for days, arm extended, trying different angles, different heights, different positions.

At one point, I was on my tippy-toes, like that was gonna make a difference.

My arm was shaking.

My shoulder was burning, and the whole time, I was trying.

Trying to make it happen.

Trying to recreate the moment I had seen online.

Trying to control something that certainly had its own rhythm.

Then, one evening, after a long day of work and school and all the things, I went outside again.

But this time, something was different.

I wasn't trying as hard.

I left my phone inside.

I wasn't documenting anything.

I just stood there, and I waited.

It felt like a solid 20 minutes.

The birds were still flying all around, quick and curious, but I wasn't chasing them with my attention.

I wasn't calculating.

I was just standing there, breathing, letting the moment be as it was.