My husband saw a bright yellow parakeet in our yard. I was out walking and I missed it. I wonder what our gaggle of regulars thought. They had to have seen it — the pigeons who waddle in the driveway, almost too heavy for flight; the magpies in constant search of the “other”; the doves in between cooing… Surely the woodpeckers perked their heads with the flash of yellow. Even the little bush hoppers that flit in and out so quickly must have caught a glimpse. Because a yellow would pop! In these spring greens and pinks that cover our yard, yellow will always shine. And if they did see it, this bright yellow bird, it hasn’t stopped them from singing. From flying. From hopping around our driveway. From dancing in the water that collects on the freshly sprinkled grass. They seem just fine. Joyful even.
As humans, it can be hard to follow “the nature of things…” I’m trying to get better. To celebrate those around me. To know their yellow doesn’t take anything away from my beige. To understand there is room for all, hopping, flying, stumbling even.
People often ask, “Do you paint self-portraits?” Daily, I think. Never parakeet- pronounced, but I’m there, in each painting. In each tiny, joyful, unobvious bird, I’m there — waiting, grateful for every glimpse of color that hovers by.
