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| Bird sketch by Ariel Kopelove |
It was late November, Thanksgiving weekend in fact
and I was sitting on the upper deck of a house we rented
in a peaceful cove of Lake Tillery.
It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon-the sun slanting through
the tall scrub oaks between the deck and the boathouse
when a tiny little bird flew to perch beside me on the guardrail.
He saw me.
I'm sure of it.
He just didn't care what I wanted.
More focused on his purpose than on anything as
complex as a middle-aged human woman sitting adjacent to his primary target.
His head twisted left, then right as he lowered his whole body
to a steep angle and pointed his curved beak up toward
the sliding glass doors behind me.
And then he started to sing.
A deafening sound came pouring out of this
tiny little creature.
Add in the reverb from the glass doors
and he might have had a megaphone.
TEAKETTLE! TEAKETTLE! TEAKETTLE!
he screamed into the void.
A little Carolina Wren, doing his job
and somehow figuring out how to do it
EVEN BETTER by using our rental house's glass doors.
He sang his song until he was done.
Tilted his head back towards me one last time in salute
and then flew away.
The whole interaction lasted a handful of minutes
but I've thought about him again and again over the past few months.
What a little bitty bird.
What a great big song.
He didn't give one thought
to whether or not I wanted to hear his song.
If I didn't like it, I could stuff my ears.
Was it good for me? Did I like his song?
Not his problem.
Did it make me feel some kind of way?
That was for me to find out and not for him to know.
Could the glass break? The walls fall down around him?
Never appeared to occur to him.
He had a job, he did it.
To the maximum level of his ability.
When he was done, he got on with it.
I have no idea where he went after he did his thing.
What do little birds do when they're not trying to blast down the house.
I will never know-
he didn't stay to chat or explain any of his behavior to me.
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| A page from Maggie Smith's incredible little book "Keep Moving". |
Remember that I walk a lot?
One of the things I do on those walks is look for
flora or fauna.
I feel like they are messages from GOD.
I often end up meditating on the treasures
the natural world graces me with as my feet plod along.
The flowers that were buds yesterday but are blooming today
remind me that nothing stays the same.
The hawks that nest beside my house
remind me that spirit is close and sharp-eyed.
The crows remind me that not all the smartest creatures are mammals
and the occassional deer or coyote
right in my suburban 'hood remind me that
the WILD is padding along beside me even when I can't see it.
I know they might not be actual messages
sent to me by a FORCE or an energy
but the metaphor does something
inside of me that I like.
Helps me remember to hold things loosely,
and save room for the magic and joy
that refuse to be scheduled.
So I obviously thought about this little bird
with a slant that might not occur to normal people,
those less sure that GOD is continually dropping breadcrumbs.
He was so intent on his task,
aware of me but indifferent.
Didn't he know that I could be dangerous?
Does he do that a lot? Land three feet from a living
thing that's 1,000 times bigger than him
and eats his distant relatives for celebration?
His fearless trumpeting feels significant to me still
but was even more meaninful to me that weekend.
See, I'd just finished the first draft of my book
and I was starting to edit it.
I'd had several bits of feedback
(from people who hadn't read a word of the writing)
that they felt very strongly that I shouldn't
be writing this down.
If I needed to write, there were better stories in their opinion.
These events, these people, these details
were all too much and too ugly to pull into the light.
Leave it.
Let it go.
Just move on.
These bits of commentary hurt me
and confused me.
I wasn't yet aware that telling
my story might make the shame that other people
carry around feel threatened enough to bite.
I've thought about him again and again.
What does it mean to sing your song?
How do you know if it's your song or someone else's version?
What if no one wants to hear it?
What if doing it breaks things?
What if your song shatters someone's vision of
what was or pulls down a system that gave them comfort?
What if your song is so different, so out of harmony
with the rest of the understanding that
you don't get to go home again?
Every time I think about it, I came back to something I've
written about before-a little mantra
that I use regularly when I'm trying to get centered.
In his honor, I added another tattoo to the sleeve
I wear for that little feisty bugger (all pictures on this post are
from the talented hands of Ariel Kopelove.
Which brings me to the book I've been working on.
As I started editing, I realized that my shitty first draft
was helpful.
I have events sequenced and documented in an organized timeline.
I have written a sensible, cohesive narrative of
my life from 1980-1994 which are the years
where I was connected to my mother.
I understand these things in a different way now
and as I go through rereading I've realized that this is a story
but it is not my song.
I've got 135,000 words that will be very interesting to someone
who knows me well and would like my perspective
on how my family dynamics shaped my development.
But....I don't think it's particularly interesting or compelling
to anyone in it's current format.
Now that I am clear about the timeline and events,
I find that I've got to twist it back around itself
in a more interesting puzzle for it to actually be the song I'm trying to sing.
I don't know why I needed to do it this way
but I accept that it's my work
and I trust that I'll figure out how to
mold it into something worth singing out loud.
It'll come.
While I let it perc a bit,
I've been writing some fiction that is pretty delightful.
A little urban fantasy world that I created
that is based at the same
lake where that little bird yelled at me.
It's entertaining myself and a few friends
and somehow continues to expand in the form of short stories (for now).
This is my year for playing right?
Sing your song.
Do it as clearly and loudly as you can.
Do it as well as you can.
Whether you think the natural world is
trying to tell you something
is up to you.
I'm not giving it up anytime soon.
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