Names and words are convenient. We use them as a way to package a whole set of information about someone or something. To share with others. To communicate ideas. To connect. In any language, a book is a book, a car is a car, a tree is a tree, each identifiable by its name.

We get into trouble when we pay too much attention to the name and not enough to the underlying "is-ness" or essence of what we name.

When I was very young, my sister and I didn't relate to each other by name. I could recognize the very Judy-ness of her no matter what her name. She had a certain flavour about her energy. A roundness, steadiness, openness, interest in certain things. We communicated without language. We followed the flow of each others energy through direct perception.

When I was in my twenties, and I arrived at the hospital one day to visit Gma (my grandmother), her face lit up when she saw me, even though she was old and forgetful and didn't know quite who I was. She said, "Now there's a friendly face!" The name and relationship escaped her but she could see something in me that was comfortable and familiar and happy for her.

Putting a label or name on our perception of something or someone adds a layer to that underlying "is-ness". By defining it we solidify it. We add a world of ideas, opinions and history to it.

Sometimes we lose some of the joy in the process.

The other morning when I was out in the trees, I heard a familiar bird call. It was a lovely murmur that I hadn't heard in a while and I couldn't put a name to it. Its essence was sweet and comfortable and I felt affection on hearing it. A part of me wanted to identify the bird, and another part of me wanted to simply enjoy the sounds it was making and feelings they evoked.

So, I had a choice. I could abandon the delightful experience of simple hearing and move into the less pleasant experience of identifying, or I could simply listen and trust that if I needed to know the name it'd come to me eventually.

I chose to just enjoy it.

Now here's the interesting part. A few minutes later, I did remember what kind of bird it was. It was a turkey. And just remembering the name changed things. (Just as it likely did for you as you read the word "turkey.") My mind jumped right in. I started thinking about the poor social standing of turkeys in general opinion (have you noticed how UGLY they are?)

and then recalling memories of a particular wild turkey who lived in our yard for years (the eggs she laid, the names people called her, the sound of her barking as she ran across the roof etc.) As the extra layer of history and opinion came flooding in, the simple, lovely murmur I'd heard got diluted in the babble, or maybe it got buried underneath it, and the experience lost a lot of its joy.

That was very telling for me.

When I visited Gma in the hospital that day long ago, she must have asked me who I was a dozen times. Each time she asked, I reminded her that I was one of Audrey's twins. But neither of us chose to worry about it when she forgot again a moment later. We were having too much fun. While names and history can be important, when they got stripped away that day we didn't lose anything. We gained something - a deeper connection, one that may have brought us closer to who we really were. A deep connection just like Judy and I had when we were little kids.

Judy and I have a lot of history now. A lot of stuff has been added to the sister I knew when we were very small. But every now and then, in lucky moments, I can feel that essence of her, that Judy-ness. Bare and basic and beautiful. That wonderful, familiar, underlying flavour of her. One that allows for communication without words. One that takes me right out of time. And when that happens, it reminds me that history comes and goes, but is-ness is eternal.

That's something to remember the next time I hear a bird call that seems familiar.

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