I really didn’t want to be scared, but still I begged to watch it — The Birds, by Alfred Hitchcock. I had heard some of the other kids at Washington Elementary say they were going to watch it. Several boys had said they even had watched it the year before, claiming it was nothing — only babies would be afraid. This sealed the internal deal for me. “But I love birds…” I whined to my mother. “That makes it even worse,” she said.

She was right about both.

I watched behind fingers. Watched repeatedly within my Raggedy Ann bed sheets. Bad dream after nightmare. I was afraid of the winter birds. Those I had so admired for their strength against the cold, I ran from to get on the school bus. I shied away from their spring songs. Timidly in the summer sun I ran under trees. In ballparks. Among friends. And one day, moments passed. I didn’t worry. Days passed. And I skipped. I biked. And I wasn’t afraid anymore.

I suppose the same thing happened with love.

I paint birds. A lot of birds! I never stopped loving them. Each one I paint reminds me, not of the fear, but of the love. We will all get hurt along the way. Be frightened. And it is worse when it is someone you love. But that doesn’t have to ruin love itself. Love will always find a way to soar. I will not miss any more seasons out of fear. One way or another, I am going to fly!