Hummingbird Morning

“What a wondrous thing a hummingbird is — a flash of life and color.”

— Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

The early light came softly, as if the sun were unsure whether to wake the world so soon after its New Year’s revelry. Champagne flutes stood empty beside half-burned candles; the scent of laughter still hovered in the corners of quiet rooms. Outside, the streets of Eureka — or anywhere — were rinsed clean by mist. Even the fog seemed gentler this morning, like an old friend came to forgive the year gone by.

I like to think of mornings like this as a reset in the great machine of time. The universe pauses its gears, waiting to see if we’ll notice. Maybe that’s what this new year is — a chance to remember that we’ve already survived more than we ever thought possible. Every scar is a map. Every sorrow, a seed that somehow grew into this calm.

Yes, the world feels heavy sometimes. The endless scroll of news, the chattering feeds that mistake fear for importance. Algorithms whisper in our ears like restless ghosts, telling us what to be angry about next. But we can choose not to listen. We can choose to filter the noise. There’s a new tool for that — artificial intelligence (AI). You’ve heard of it, of course. Some love it, some distrust it. But like any tool, it reflects the hands that hold it. It can be a window or a mirror. It can help us see patterns, or it can remind us that the deepest truths still come from quiet places — our hearts, our walks through fog, the sound of the tide rolling in at dawn.

The New Year itself feels like a hummingbird to me — dazzling, fleeting, impossible to hold. Watch how it darts between moments, how it hovers without hurry, tasting sweetness from the air. It never worries about tomorrow’s flower. It doesn’t measure time the way we do. It just lives. Fully. Fearlessly.

Maybe that’s how we can move through 2026. As hummingbirds. Sampling life’s nectar wherever it blooms. Trusting the invisible air to hold us up.

Yes, there will be politics — there always are. The river of debate will swell as the midterms approach, muddy with voices and tempers.

But we don’t have to drown in it. We can float above, let the current carry us only when it feels right. Dip our fingers when the water feels honest, pull them back when it reeks of anger. The river doesn’t own us; it only invites us. B.B. King once sang, “Like a hummingbird, I’ll be flying away.” Another time, he sang, “The thrill is gone.” But I don’t believe the thrill is gone. It’s just changed its form. It’s quieter now, found in sunlight across a kitchen table, in the laughter of someone who still remembers your name, in the shimmer of wings over a river at dawn.

So here’s to 2026. A year to hover lightly. To taste deeply. To live as if the air itself were music.

John Ash is an architect, designer, writer and photographer living in Eureka. He is a member of the Senior News Community Advisory Council. Visit johnash-writer.com