There are some people who feel like a blessing you don’t realize you’ve been waiting for. Like a sound you strain to hear each spring while setting up tables before the sun is fully awake. The Meadowlark is one of those. She is the kind of soul the earth seems to sing into being – light and sure – joy tucked into her breath like a birdcall drifting across an open field.

Growing up, my family had a contest every year to see who could hear the first meadowlark, winner got a nice chocolate bar. It meant winter was loosening its grip. It meant longer days, softer mornings, and the quiet promise that life was beginning again. The meadowlark was a clear, steady song that carried hope on the wind. That is who the Meadowlark is.

I met her in that in-between hour of the world – farmers market Fridays, when the air is still cool, tents are snapping open, and the first birds are already busy. Among crates of produce, walkie talkies, and diet cokes, she brought music to the work. Never rushed, never flustered. Just present. Like she belonged to that rhythm of early light and shared labor.

The Meadowlark is not hurried. She arrives in her own time, offering music where silence once lived. Her joy is honest and unforced, the kind that settles into your bones and reminds you to breathe. She has a way of making the world feel a little less heavy. Laughing until your sides ache because she is, without question, the funniest person in the room; pausing mid-conversation to marvel at a bird overhead, her love for them as boundless as the sky; nurturing Basil with the kind of tenderness and devotion that makes her an extraordinary dog mom; and standing in the kitchen, hands warm and stead, crafting caramels that feel like love made edible. Her presence alone says, You are not alone. Spring will come.

The Meadowlark is never just song. There is strength in her small body, courage in her steady flight. She knows how to stay when things are hard, how to hold grief without letting it steal her light. Her resilience is quiet but unwavering, like a bird that returns year after year despite the long journey. She teaches those around her to listen more closely – to the world, to each other, to themselves. She reminds us that joy doesn’t need to be loud to be powerful.

The Meadowlark reminds us that goodness still exists in simple forms. Love can sound like laughter over folding tables. Healing can feel like a familiar song floating through a market at sunset.

So today, I celebrate the Meadowlark. May her mornings always be filled with birdsong. May her hands always have something good to make. May her heart always know how deeply needed her music is. And may the world continue to soften and brighten each time she chooses to sing.

Happy birthday, Meadowlark.