The first one said, “I’m here. Where are you?”
The second said, “I’m here. Where are you?”
The third one said, “I’m here.” She paused, perhaps for dramatic flourish, then said, “Where are you?”
I was pretty sure the three ravens weren’t talking to me. They perched nearby and didn’t seem at all interested in where I was, as I sat on my front porch half listening in on their conversation. Of course had they asked, I’m not at all sure how I would have answered. It was pretty clear that I was anywhere but here, despite my lounging form on the porch chair, about fifteen yards away from their branch as the crow flies. But when the ravens yanked me out of my autopilot reverie I realized that my brain had been chugging along in thought grooves so habitual they hardly required my participation.
And the funny thing was, when the ravens called me to presence, gifting me the space to actually catch the nature of my thinking, I realized how worthless the thoughts had been. Fueled by a false and well honed sense of self-importance, the thoughts were nothing more than repetitive chewing on the same old stories of past and future. I hadn’t even been close to here.
At the ravens behest my thoughts became more conscious and therefore more spacious. I became more present to the only place where life can be found. “I’m here,” I said to the ravens. “In case you were wondering.”
The ravens cawed in delight.