The Nightingale.

Photo Credit; Michael Stock

I love, love, love this story. I love it more each time I read it. <

I love how it was the poor peasant girl and lowly fisherman who "knew" the Nightingale, and whose lives were enriched by it's beautiful song on a daily basis. "This nightingale sang so beautifully that even the poor fisherman, who had much to do, stopped to listen when came at night to haul in his nets... (and) a poor little maid in the kitchen said; 'Oh, I know the Nightingale well. How she sings!... When I am going home at night, tired and weary, and I stop to rest for awhile in the woods, then I hear the Nightingale singing. It brings tears to my eyes, and I feel as if my mother were kissing me."

My heart goes out to the "poor" Emperor and his Lords in all their splendor who lived oblivious of the beautiful song being sung in their own backyard.. "What!" said the Emperor. "I don't know anything about the Nightingale. Is there such a bird in my empire, and in my own garden? I have never heard of her. Fancy reading about her for the first time in a book written by someone who never lived here!"...." I have never before heard the Nightingale mentioned," said the First Lord. "I know that she has never been presented at court! But I will seek her out!"

Truly, the most beautiful treasures are the ones we happen upon in our stillness, they do not come to "present" themselves to us in our busy-ness. Indeed the busy-ness clouds and drowns them out. They require us to lay the trappings of life aside and seek them out.

I love that the Nightingale was a common, rather drab thing to look upon. The beauty she possessed was not striking and flashy as to stop one in one's tracks. Indeed, next to the trappings we esteem, the simple things appear rather lack-lustre in a passing glance. "Is it possible?" said the first lord. "I should never have thought it. How ordinary she looks! She must have lost her color, seeing so many distinguished men around her."

I love that the ornate, elevated extravagance of the palace is tiresome and wearying. "At the palace everything was prepared for the glorious occasion. The porcelain walls and floors glittered in the light of many thousands of golden lamps; gorgeous flowers with tinkling bells were placed in the corridors. There was such hurrying and doors opening and closing that all the bells jingled so one could scarcely hear oneself speak."

I love that the counterfeit bird, was truly that. Counterfeit. And for all it's diamonds and rubies, it's song was not original, and all it could do was repeat it's one mechanical, programmed series of notes. "...an artificial nightingale, very like the real one, but studded with diamonds, rubies and sapphires. When it was wound up, it could sing one of the songs the real bird sang, and it's tail moved up and down, glittering with silver and gold. "... "For see... with the real Nightingale one can never tell which song will come out, but with the artificial bird everything is set beforehand."

I love the admission of "something wanting". Something only real life, real experience can fulfill. "But the poor fisherman who had heard the real Nightingale suddenly remembered it's voice and said, "This one sings well enough, but there is something wanting. I don't know what."

I love the tangible relationship between the emperor and the living Nightingale, juxtaposed to the inanimate, silent jeweled bird who sat on a golden perch in cold silence near the ailing regent. "Music! Music!" cried the emperor. "Precious little golden bird, sing! Sing! I gave you gold jewels; I hung my gold slipper around your neck with my own hand. Sing! Sing!" But the bird was silent, for there was no one to wind it up. and everything was silent, terribly still! All at once there came through the window the most glorious burst of song. It was the little living Nightingale, who had been sitting on a bough outside."

I love that God has given us "Nightingales" on every hand. To bring music and beauty into our lives. Sometimes they are silent, but ringing with messages. Messages of love, of relationship, of a Creator sending love notes to the created. Do you see them? Today my Nightingales were;

~lacy white frost on crimson crabs.
~buttery fingers of autumn sunlight playing in my daughter's hair as she bent over schoolwork.
~the gentle rise and fall of my baby's breath as we lay in a hushed house after lunch.
~little hands that caressed as I read the story above and sweet voices that discussed the richness of it's tale.

What Nightingales have graced your life today?