When I see a bird on a wire I cannot help but think that it is trying, in its own way, to be free. Leonard Cohen has forever affected my mind in this way, an impressive feat, I think. I am also struck by the thought, put there by my grandfather, that they survive, the birds I mean, because they are not grounded. Most of us, if we are not grounded, survive in spite of it, if indeed we do at all. Being a bird must be a very different reality.
She is a slight and tiny thing, probably seven or eight, and I am struck by how mature she wants to be. She is trying to be her mother, a stoic type, and the impersonation is uncanny. She orders a hot tea, like her mother, and stands so still and quiet while they're brewing it. She follows her mother to add an artificial sweetener to her tea, and she performs the ritual flawlessly. Then, as she's putting the lid on her tea, the cardboard sleeve on the cup slips down and she sees that her name, her very own name, is written on the cup with a black marker. She had not noticed this before, and it thrills her for some reason. She actively tries to fight the huge smile that is spreading on her face. Before she slides the cardboard back up, she taps her mother on the arm and, when her mother looks over, she points to her name on the cup, trying again to hide her elation from her mother. Mother smiles and nods, showing the girl that they have written her name on her cup as well. The little girl slips the cardboard back up into place and they are on their way, each to their busy day at the office, no doubt. I am struck by the thought of how much easier it is for our children to imitate us than it is for us to imitate them. Such simple joy, I don't think I could ever pull it off convincingly.
We all live in different worlds, different worlds that occupy the same space. What have I in common with a bird on a wire, buffeted by the wind? What have I in common with the simple joy of childhood discovery? As I pack up and leave, I remember the girl again, and I can barely contain a huge, stupid grin. Getting to my car, the cold wind gusts against me, ruffling my feathers.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
