I’ve been watching the grackles watch the sky. They look up with beady eyed intelligence as I look down at my feet, both of us planning our next move. One of the first tragedies of my life was the moment I realized I could not fly. I ran as fast as I could with my eyes closed trying to imagine what a bird feels and ran straight into a wall. After the blood was cleaned off the grownups laughed, but I was devastated. Being bound to the ground seemed like a betrayal of anatomy. It’s funny how long you carry those feelings with you without even knowing where they came from.
Sometimes I sit by a spring and watch the light reflect onto branches and leaves and feel grateful for the silence. Words have been coming out thick and slow like molasses. They don’t feel adequate anymore. The yammering is as overwhelming as the pressure to yammer, but it gets lonely when you don’t. So yammer I must.
I used to wish I was a tree instead — silent, old and still, but I’m not sure if that’s true of trees. I still don’t hear them. Once I met a man who dressed like a tree, but he had been uprooted so I don’t think it counts. There’s a lot I don’t hear.
Everything is blooming and buzzing and carrying on and I find myself finally able to begin to drop the childish notion that I am not because I am.