Some say it is the king of birds — claiming that it rode on the eagle’s back and then when the eagle could go no further, it came out of hiding and rose above. Other cultures think that it carries messages from the spirits. Some say it is able to soar high while staying on the ground — this version, being most like me, is the one I flutter to. 

Maybe it’s what we all strive for, (I hope it is, but I’m not sure), this rising above. It’s easy, I suppose, to be low, given these feet. These feet so often stuck in each furrow, keep us looking downward. But the wren. The wren. What if we were still able to soar without leaving the ground. I want to believe it. I have to. 

So I paint the bird with stroke and flutter, in hopes that I will remember, to keep looking up. To remember that rising is only a myth if we don’t believe we can. I believe we can. I urge myself and you, to look up from the ground, (which is possibly just your phone) and see someone. Really see someone. And maybe they will see you, seeing them, seeing you ask, “the wren?”, seeing them reply with heart, “the wren.”

Up we go.