I only saw it last night. Could it have come sooner, or was it right on time? Awakening in the thick sky of wee hours, I had left the shutter open, and saw how it wasn’t simply dark, but so black it was blue, like a Magpie. And if it were a bird, this absence of light, couldn’t it just as easily gather those night weary worries under wing? Couldn’t it say, this is not for you to carry? Not now. Not in this light. This is the color of letting go. This is the color of release.
Some say a Magpie will steal anything. I don’t know if that’s true, but if they did, if they do, I decide to leave my concerns above cover, and let them take it. And I give thanks for the thief of worry. No longer bruised, but released by the black and blue of it all. And I am saved.
It’s not lost on me that the words are so similar. So often when painting the birds, I feel the smiling, winged “wink” from above.
He didn’t really know me, when he commissioned the painting for his wife. (Didn’t know that I have a “bird by bird” daily regime.) When I finished, he asked if I could add a little something special on the back. “Could you paint a bird in flight?” I looked around the open sky to see who was watching, “Yes,” I smiled, “I could paint a bird…”
I painted for her a yellow bird to match the yellow house on the front. And I wasn’t sure if they were led to me, or I was chosen, or if we all simply met mid flight. And I suppose it’s that idea that I like the most, thinking we’re all just trying to make this journey a little lighter, a little more joyful… and wouldn’t it be something if we did our best to lift each other, even with just a wink and a smile.
Anyway, it’s always a good reason to keep looking up.
There’s probably a path worn from my daily trek to the hills of the Montaiguet. But I can tell you, I have never walked the same way twice. (Sure, if you’re going to count by tread marks, but my travels are led (or whisked away) by imagination, and are more like the darting of the birds to the stories just behind the trees.
I suppose I started on Van Dyke Road, dragging a wagon full of fellow wanderers — more than willing participants in the sunlit adventure of the afternoon. No rules or fences, only wonder. “I wonder if my hand could fit in there?… or if my doll could reach that highest limb? If the elephant I won tossing rings at the Douglas County fair missed its friends, and were they waiting in the North End? Could we all survive on one can of Chicken Noodle soup? Could the wagon actually take flight if pushed fast enough down the hill? How do you get grass stains out of a baby blanket? Is there a secret land in Hugo’s field? Could my mother always find me?”
My feet may not be as quick, by my mind is still as wistful as the wondering wren. The sun comes up, and I flutter.
I saw the nest in springtime. Of course it would have been spring, but I did not yet know the timing of such nests and eggs. What I did know was that I had my banana seat bike, the one I got for my birthday, March 27th. Youth’s privilege allowed me to see my bicycle also as a ladder. I propped it against the trunk. Tippy toe on the seat, I could just reach the lowest hanging branch. I wrapped each hand around. I needed to get my feet up as well. I pressed my toes into the seat and thrusted, just nipping the branch with one bumper tennis shoe. I did it again. Not there. My celebration on final thrust for wrapping my feet around the branch, turning myself into a swing was negated by the tumbling of my bike to the ground. I had heard the saying before, but I only now understood that I was really out on a limb.
I did have some fear of letting myself fall, but my biggest fear now was landing on my bicycle which rested perfectly beneath me without a clue of the harm it could cause. I spoke to it on the off chance it could actually hear me, like I was sure my stuffed animals could. What I heard back in my head was an arrested apology that said, you’re going to have to do this on your own.
My bark weary hands urged my brain for a solution. Remembering why I came up here in the first place, to see the bird nest, I had a desperate longing for my own, nest. Of course I called for my mom, purely out of instinct because I knew she was at work. Dangling was not an ever solution. I was going to have to decide. To trust. To let go.
Some will call it luck. Fate. Faith. But I landed between bars. Unscathed. Into the beautiful nest of our unmowed lawn.
Had I landed improperly. Twisted an ankle. Broken an arm. Would I have stopped climbing? Future me in the fifth grade, arm broken at Noonan’s Park Ice Skating rink, says probably not. My take on it, I will never be stifled nor stuck in certainty. In life and love, I’m going out on that limb.
I don’t know how many fallen bird nests I saw. I stopped counting when my mom assured me that the birds did not fall with it. “They flew…” she said. “But were they sad to leave?” I asked. Never one to sugarcoat things, or possibly she knew how close we were to living the same truth, she said, “For a little while, maybe, but then they realized the sky was theirs too.”
Everything changes. That’s life. But it doesn’t have to signify a fall. I’m getting better at noticing it. Sometimes mid flap, but I get there. So many nests get taken away, or are simply left behind. But comfort can be found. Again and again.
We are all given the tools. For me, wings are disguised as paint brushes and letters. Ruffled blouses and open paths. And every day I fly. The sky is always there. It turns out the answer remains — just to look up.
Coming out of the restaurant she told me, “I love your hair! You look so sassy and smart!” The thank yous were still tumbling from my smile when she said, “But I guess that comes from the inside, doesn’t it..” My heart was smiling too.
Now, I consider myself pretty good at giving compliments, but this was something! She took “beautiful inside and out” to a whole new level. And she seemed as happy as I was, to give it. Bravo to the lady outside Martina’s Restaurant.
My mother was the first to teach me how to give a compliment. (And just by being herself, she gave me ample reason to want to.) She also taught me how to receive it, as the gift that is given.
It’s curious, we wouldn’t do it with a regular gift, refuse a birthday present let’s say. We wouldn’t put our hands out and say No! So why do so many do it with a compliment? “Oh no, not me,” or “not this old thing,” they’ll say, while backing themselves away. When really, thank you, is all that is needed. That is the reciprocal gift.
I’m still receiving this offering in the morning mirror. (Never underestimate the power of a compliment.) And I think the bar has been raised. So I challenge myself. I challenge you. Today, let’s give the compliments freely. (Even to ourselves.) And accept them with joy — so much joy that we have to bundle it and give it away again. Would that make us sassy? I don’t know, but it would make us smart!
I don’t remember anyone telling me it was beautiful (and I remember everything), but somehow I knew. It’s everywhere. Just grass and trees. Leaves and bushes and lawns. Flowers left to scatter wild on lengthy stems. (I suppose that’s where they get me, because I think I’m one of them.)
My mother had long legs. And better yet, the longest strides. I thought it was her superpower. For years I ran behind, trying to hang on to her cape. Which day was it that I caught up? No longer in the wave of that cape, the wave of her superpowers, but side by side. There was nothing we couldn’t do. Nowhere we couldn’t go. Stride for stride.
I love to walk still. Though it feels more like flying. I see people in groups in every country. Some wonder, even ask, “Why do you walk alone?” I only smile, because the truth is, I never am. Never will be. I wave and whoosh along the pash.
Some would argue that in the song “Feeling Good,” the singer has already found their desired freedom. Others say that they are singing to convince themselves of the possibility. I seem to be, not unlike the dragonfly, somewhere hovering in between.
The birds have their songs. The bees, their honey. So what about that dragonfly? Are we not in the same sky? Under the same sun? Sure we’re not all given the same gifts, the same advantages, but we are given the same day. The same 24 hours to make the most of it. I don’t want to waste my time envying the bird, but celebrating my own flight.
And I don’t always get it right. But on those days, I try to sing even louder —
“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day It’s a new life for me, yeah It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day It’s a new life for me, ooh And I’m feeling good!”
There’s a reason for the chorus. The importance of it. That’s why it’s repeated again and again. So on the days when I make the same mistakes, I sing myself out. Not with shame or worry, but simply a welcoming of the chorus.
Those that play know it’s there, the piano in our library. It’s one of my favorites spots in the house. A collection of art, music, books and photos. And it will call to you, in the voice that you need to hear.
I suppose we’re all drawn to it, what we love, if we dare to follow the radar that pulses from each heart beat. I’m always surprised when people say they don’t know. It’s literally pounding inside of you. I guess they are afraid.
It has been said that we’re driven by one of two things, love or fear. Love will lead you to the piano. Will never allow it to go unplayed. Love will encourage the stumble through each note. The beginning again and again. Love will music your family in, and soon you will all be part of the song.
Fear is quiet. Lonely. Cold. (It’s not lost on me that my painting above the piano reads, “all my heart ever wanted, was just to come in from the cold.”) And it has. This is my hope for all. My welcoming.
In recent days, within minutes of entering our house, our nephew, who was vacationing from the US, was at the piano. I suppose one never takes a vacation from the self. So many miles away, almost instantly, he found his way home.
The best we can do is keep them in sight – the pianos and books, the kitchen tables, the art supplies and open corners on beds, the hearts between outstretched arms. But we all have to listen, to follow, to become. It’s up to each and every one of us to be brave enough to try. To come in. To dare the unplayed piano.
The thing was, you had to be a reader to even understand the advertisement. A book was always within arms reach, so when it aired in between Saturday morning cartoons, promoting books, I rose up from my “head in elbowed arms” position and got a little closer to the television. “Reading is fundamental,” they said. I didn’t bother to ask my mother. I had been trained by Mrs. Bergstrom at Washington Elementary, and my mother repeated it daily, so I raced to the bookshelf to pull out the giant red dictionary to “Look it up.” I put my index finger in the section marking the “f”s. My finger traced through the pages as I sounded out the words. Fe, Fo, fun, funda, fundamental! Important, necessary, I was in agreement with it all. I ran to the laundry room. Saturday meant cartoons for me, and laundry for my mother. Her head bent over pulling clothes out of the dryer, I eagerly tapped her shoulder. “Reading is fundamental,” I said proudly. “It is,” she smiled, still filling her basket. I asked her about her next load, working fundamental into the conversation, remembering that to make a word your own, you had to use it three times. I often went to four or five, just to make sure. Satisfied that I had gained ownership, I went back to the tv. I saw my library book there. I turned off the set. Grabbed my book and went back to the laundry room. Nothing was more necessary, nor more important than she was. “I better read to you,” I said. She smiled and listened. We both leaned against the rumble of the washer, gathered in the greatest importance. Together.
