I opened my front door last week to let in the cool
breezes and gentle winter sunshine. It was gratifying
to open up my heart as well to the world outside,
believing I live in a place where I can leave my doors
open and not be afraid.
I was in another part of the house when I heard a
noise and came into the living room to investigate.
At first I could see nothing amiss. But then
movement startled me, and I turned and saw a bird
perched jauntily-- preening on the back of my favorite
chair. Along the edge he strutted, looking delighted
with himself, until he spied me. He launched himself
quickly away slamming into the window and bouncing
backward, crashing to the ground.
Blaming myself, I rushed to his fragile form,
crooning softly, eager to help, beseeching him not to
be afraid. But he fled as I leaned closer, angry,
flashing off quickly in another direction. Flying
frantically looking to escape, he ended up caught
between some shutters and the glass as he tried to
escape from another window.
Carefully I peeked through the wooden slats, tipping
one to release him from his trap, and saw it was a
special Arizona bird, a cactus wren, a small one, a
teenager most likely. I admired his spiky head,
speckled breast and arrogant air of confidence as he
glared back up at me over that feisty tail.
Up and out he flew, hitting a framed picture over the
fireplace this time, and tumbling to the tile. Afraid
he would do himself irreparable harm, I ran to pull
open the arcadia doors to the backyard and widen his
escape route. He swerved in that direction as the
light spread inward, almost judging correctly, but
hitting the sliding door this time. Grabbing a Navajo
blanket from the couch, I dashed to where he
struggled, my heart pounding and held it up in an
attempt to block off part of that exit and veer him
in the right direction. Throughout the house we
continued, him flapping wildly, me in pursuit, chasing
after, calling and cajoling, begging him to come back.
The blanket stretched behind me now, floating between
my arms and over my head, it trailing like a
magician’s cape as I tried to edge this fledgling in
the right direction and toward the safest way.
I was fearing for his life when he finally spied the
open space and with nary a backwards glance, nor a
thank you, flew out my door and to freedom.
I stood still, panting in relief and watched him fly,
sending him on his way with prayers for safety... my
blanket draped over my hair and shoulders now, like an
old crone, left alone in my doorway.
The whole scenario reminded me of the dance I’m
playing with my teenage son. Him, fearless and
searching, pushing the limits, often out-of-control,
dancing in the wrong places, rushing here and there
with no thought of the consequences, trying to find
freedom and space, his place to fly.
Me, simply a crazy old lady in his eyes, chasing
madly after him as he tries to live his life. There I
am, always there, reaching for him, corralling him,
screeching and beseeching, trying to block off avenues
of distraction and danger, shut off inappropriate
outlets, save him from painful knockdowns, and from
himself as he edges out. Each time he hits a wall and
falls back, stunned and hurt, I try to help, bend to
pick him up, only to have him push me away,rush past
me, as he careens off wildly in another direction.
I wish him wings...for the universe to guide him on
his way... I pray, too, for his safety and for open
doorways on this flight for independence.
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