Songs in the Trees

Captain’s Log: Day Two in Costa Rica. I woke up this morning in Costa Rica—day two of what will be more than a month away from my beloved ranch, ending in Southern California. I spend a lot of time here, and assuredly my experiences and countless visits influenced the drive to move to rural Santa Fe. The parallels are palpable. One such commonality is the constant presence of birds. And I don’t mean pigeons.

This morning, I stepped outside the finca with a warm cup of tea and parked myself on a bench. I took a moment to enjoy the cool breeze and the damp stone beneath my feet, and I took some time to just tap into my senses with all the life surrounding me.

There is a deceptive quality to quiet. Quiet and silence are not the same thing to me. There was no lack of sound fluttering toward my ears. As a habit, I pulled out my Merlin ID app that records and identifies birds and their songs. In 30 seconds, it identified half a dozen feathered friends. In the mornings, both at the ranch and here, there is a wild amount of birds jamming out in the trees with the wind and rain. Their song—a constant reminder of life. They love to celebrate a fresh rain, and they never miss a chance to notify their friends and family that they made it through the night. We get up and stretch (hopefully), and birds get up and sing. It’s rather inspiring when you think about it.

I wonder if the songs they sing belong to them or if they belong to the universe and they are merely sirens or translators. Think Colors of the Wind. Maybe the songs are already here—we just have to open our hearts to hear them.

As a writer, I have often wondered about this. It seems that my best tunes just sort of fall out of me. My biggest job is getting out of the way while attempting to document the divine inspiration. Sometimes it feels like the song doesn’t even belong to me, that it belongs to some third party, so I often attribute them to my muse. Is that what birds are experiencing? Is that what Louis, Miles, and Ella were experiencing when they stood in front of the microphone and started to improvise?

I rarely—if ever—hear musicians describe creation as uninspired, lacking divine intervention, or coming to us with our hearts blocked. Even this article is inspired. An hour ago, I had no idea what I was going to write about. Still, I had faith that my skills as a conduit would kick in. And they did.

I’ve never suffered from writer’s block. I don’t know that I even believe in it—for myself. I’m sure folks do sit in front of the page, stuck. But not me. Hand me a pencil, a guitar, or even just stick me in the middle of an empty field and I will create something. I know folks find this inspiring, and I know they wish it for themselves. Every day for the past two decades, I have taught it, written about it, or found some way to try to share the experience. Folks pay me a lot of money as a coach and teacher to help them tap into that part of themselves. But to me, it’s simple: open your mouth, move your fingers, and listen harder. The song is already in your ear. Call it God if that feels easy—but something is a constant whisper that it seems like some folks are taught to ignore. But we are all born with it. Babies aren’t taught to coo, after all. This morning, I found the worm—but only because I got up and looked for it.

When I was in grammar school, I was lucky enough to have several teachers who used regular timed free writes. It was a simple exercise, but an exercise nonetheless: set a timer, put a pencil to paper, and write. The only rule was: don’t stop writing. Right now, that’s what I’m doing to write this article. I planted myself in front of my laptop, wrote a working title, and just started typing. I’ve been at it for less than ten minutes, and here we are. These articles never take me long—because this is a reflex for me. A trained reflex, but a reflex. I don’t think it would work if I didn’t do it all day, every day.

This isn’t to say I sit at a computer writing all day. I do, however, carry a notebook in my purse where I scribble down ideas. I never hesitate to pull out my phone and record little melodies or lines. I think if I had lived before such tools existed, I probably wouldn’t have needed them to create—because I would have just sat in fields all day, using that inspiration in the moment. These days, we have to save it for later most of the time. Between the things I save for later and the constant hum of the universe, there’s enough material to create constantly.

ProTip: Think like a bird. Try making creation a part of your morning routine. Even a soft meditational hum will often lead to something more. Some folks journal in the morning to kick off their creative energy. Others sit and observe the creations of nature around them. Skip morning scrolling. Your creativity will go wherever you direct it. So, you can waste it on Facebook—or harness it for something more aligned with the creative individual you want to be.

The question I have for you today is this: is creation something we do, or something we participate in? Perhaps it’s a bit of both. But without a disconnect from the buzz of our mundane, capitalistic modern world, it’s difficult—perhaps impossible—to hear the buzz of the bees and the birdsong all around us.

If we don’t step away from the busy and settle into the quiet, connection is a challenge. We have all day to listen to ourselves and our colleagues. But the moment you step into a store, an office, or even just back into the house, we are cut off from the constant hum of all the energy that makes everything in our worlds. Nothing creates or grows better than nature. And it doesn’t need our help. It’s there whether we join in or not. But nature is a happy host. She never ceases to put on a show, and her show is filled with dynamics. The quiet of the birds and breeze—and the strength of thunderstorms.

Homework:
Tomorrow morning, before you pick up your phone, go outside if you can. Just sit somewhere quietly and listen. Really listen. Let the world make the first move. Don’t try to write a song or be profound—just hum back. Tap your fingers. Doodle in the dirt. Whisper something to no one. That’s the whole assignment.

And if you need help remembering how natural it is to make something out of nothing, here’s a little playlist of artists doing just that—tapping into the same current we’re talking about:

🎧 Listen Harder:

• Bill Evans: “Peace Piece”
  One take. No plan. Just feeling it.
• The Beatles: “Blackbird”
  Inspired by actual birdsong and meant to offer comfort during chaos.
• Joni Mitchell: Archives Vol. 1 & 2
  Early tapes, raw and imperfect, before the machine polished her up.
• John Coltrane: “Alabama”
  Grief translated directly into music. No filter.
• Laura Nyro: anything off New York Tendaberry
  Unapologetically emotional, unpredictable, alive.