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The bird brigade has been summoned.
The empathy princess is down. Completely depleted of all energies, through ridiculously and blatantly giving too much of herself to others again.
I’m lying on the grass, prone, watching a cricket scold a bumblebee when the flutes are sounded.  Actually, soaking up the healing sun who loves me for the first time in weeks, and I’m resentful.
Another person to save? And who is it? And why was I the last one to know?  Instantly irritated, I am satisfied when the bee flits off after giving a little head clobber to the cricket.  The cricket glares at me, and I smile. I have a reputation for being kind, best not to ruin it now.
The birds flit in first; I hear them yards before I see them. Barn Swallow was apparently the main herald, as he is barking orders, pretending he has more authority than we know he actually has.  I like Barn Swallow, and know his barking is a cover up for his softness.  He glares at me as he passes by so the baby cardinals and baby bluejays will think he’s big and bold and tough and all that.  I giggle, and he gives me the feather. 
The crulling of the bees and the wasps is next; you can hear them crulling from the edge of the forest, which is quite a ways out. These trillful crulling noises sparkle the sky up.  I am even more irritated now. The entities usually send me on the scouting trips, to do the round ups, and the explanations. Who are they saving? Why didn’t I get the memo? I have done so much, and now they’re coming to my meadow, without giving me any common courtesy or heads up.
I suddenly it is probably a ceremony for January Johnswallow. She’s the only entity in the kingdom who would have specifically asked that I not be on her reviving or rejuvenation committees.  We have not gotten along well since I knocked that little chunk out of the right side of her beak in first grade. It was an accident, but January enjoys her grudges. Kind of lives for them.
January appears at this exact moment. She and I nod to each other, politely. We have both been socialized, and understand the importance of pretending.  With a whispery swish, a dash of pixie glitter, and a tingly ting, a sparkle of light methodically rises up from the bowels of the pink and purple violets. I watch in fascination as the astral light begins to surround the meadow.
No matter which ceremony it is, this ceremony is special.  The  magic violet crunners don’t come to every reviving or rejuvenation ceremony. I settle down about not being invited now. I don’t care. This is something I simply cannot fathom missing.  Excitement fills the meadow as feelings of pure unadulterated joy and hope surround and engulf the bird meadow, driven toward us by the wide-open arms of the rainbow driven light faeries and mysteriously absent violet crunners.
“Rejuvenation time!” the queen announces. We recognize her by her lavender crown, because most of us have only heard stories. We have never actually seen her.  As I start melting into the gloriously loving meadow, I realize for the first time, the ceremony is for me. I am the empathy princess. I will not remember this upon my return, however, because it’s not to be known. And so it isn’t.
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