February 11th. Fujieda. Shizuoka, Japan. Along the Seto River.

The doors are open. Admission is free. Soft grassy seats are plentiful.

The theater of the mejiro has begun. You never catch the beginning, nor the ending, but it doesn’t really matter.

The stage has been set. The orchard—four or five trees in width, fifteen or twenty trees in length—is in bloom.

The mejiro love the blossoms. For them, dipping their beaks into the center of flower after flower during this noontime will be a graceful, flowing hour of effortless action.

Effortless action: doing what seems natural—that is, to the one doing it.

Not being lazy. Doing. But doing what you were meant to do. Doing what feels right to you. Doing something that requires a rhythm that is your rhythm, actions that are your actions.

In Hollywood, the Oscars have been given out. Nominated actors have struck their poses on the Red Carpet. The mejiro have no time for such nonsense. They’re all about the action. All about the thing they do. Unlike the Oscar winners, they are never out of character.

It’s absurd to ask if they are staying “in character.” Absurd to ask if they’re doing a good job.

From blossom to blossom, from branch to branch, from tree to tree, they flit, first upstream, and then, when they reach the end of the orchard, back downstream.

This day, there are thirty or forty birds. They seem to be polite by nature. If a single flit would put them too close to a friend, they fly over. Thus, their progress is a rippling wave. The little bits of green, lifting into the sky ever so slightly, comprise a magic carpet, a magic carpet riding the most subtle of slow and easy breezes.

There’s your blossom. Can you get into character? Can you see the red and yellow center as the mejiro do?

Legs straight, legs bent, it matters not. They have balance extraordinaire.

Standing upside down. No problem.

A twist about. No problem.

Clear-eyed. Ears alert. The slightest human sound or movement—and they’re gone.

Easy awareness of where next to go.

And . . . just doing it.

Being in the zone. Being. And being so beautiful.

A Hollywood movie can be nice, every once in a while, but—and maybe this is just me— the Theater of the Mejiro seems so, so much better.

(from Persimmon Dreams: When you’ve got a spare moment, check out our music/nature videos on our “Persimmon Dreams” YouTube channel, or Steve’s books, When a Sissy Climbs a Mountain in May and Along the Same Street, available on Amazon, or directly from us. And if you enjoyed this post, consider sharing with others. Thank you! Or follow Steve on Facebook or Instagram.)