A Guide to the Birds of East Africa, a gentle and symbolic read for Lenten meditation

My daughter gifted me a gentle, quiet read, A Guide to the Birds of East Africa by Nicholas Drayson. I placed it on my bedside table and as Lent began, was determined to read it.

First paragraph: 'Ah yes,' said Rose Mbikwa, looking up at the large dark bird with elegant tail soaring high above the car park of the Nairobi Museum, 'a black kite. Which is, of course, not black but brown.'

Mr Malik smiled. How many times had he heard Rose Mbikwa say those words? Almost as many times as he had been on the Tuesday morning bird walk.

This CinderFella wished to take Rose Mbikwa to the Ball. I grew fond of him; I wished him success. As I walked his walk, seeing the world from his eyes, my Lenten journey transformed.

Rather than give up something for Lent, I began this meditative season writing, reading, walking Finnegan, practicing Kundalini- and experiencing Malik's point of view. I opened to Forces within and without, hoping to shape a new consciousness.

End of Chapter 1: Who on earth was that? Brown skin, white hair, expensive clothing, and some kind of American accent; yet he looked slightly familiar. Mr Malik had little time to ponder this question, nor how this man seemed to know Rose Mbikwa, before several young black Africans piled into the back of his old Mercedes.

Some days, I only managed to walk Finnegan, who would not be dissuaded. Some days instead of writing hubs, I read hubs and wrote comments. Reading is writing, someone said.

I discovered the brown-skinned man Malik observed above also wished to take Rose Mbikwa to the Ball; the competition was on. Malik and I became supportive companions, working daily to achieve a pleasurable goal. I could not understand why this humble man experienced all the difficulties in life, while his nemesis charmed or bought his way toward what appeared to be certain victory.

Was this the way of the world? Did those with more means attain their goals with less expended effort?

Of course, my life wasn't all about walking and reading and writing. In meetings, I listened with attuned cellular attention. At convention, I tried to be my Self, with nothing to prove. Receiving criticism, I tried to react with respect, to adjust my words.

Outcomes unfolded. During an energy convention where I expected to be an outsider, I discovered a man who loved books- especially one of my favorites, Ursula LeGuin. Rewriting a poem for the Easter bulletin, the concept moved beyond words to embody forgiveness. Reading hubs from political writers with opposing views, I became curious.

Holy Week I was completely alone, my husband in Florida. I added a household task to my meditative routine- a spring cleaning of sorts- to please him when he returned.

Every day, every day, I wrote. Every day, every day, I read a bit more from A Guide to the Birds of East Africa. Every day, every day, I walked my dog Finnegan. I cleaned up my writing desk and vacuumed the basement, filed away months of bill payments. It wasn't an exciting life, but its contemplative nature appealed to me.

I suppose I became something of a bird brain. I longed to identify and sketch birds as Malik could. I listened to bird songs and along with my cat Joey, sat beside the window studied their behavior.

As the final scene of this dear, dear bird book unfolded, I felt close to Malik. Like him, I believed counting the most birds in East Africa would win Rose's hand. We had spent hours, binoculars tuned. We had survived obstacles, obsessed about schedules. We had completed our task.

Where was our expected reward?

There before us stood the cross. The goal had been shallow. A date to the Ball was not a relationship. It was a basket of Easter candy, not connection.

Malik and I settled into our respective chairs and released everything not me.

And a most satisfying resurrection occurred.