Fly

Photo by Joe Carey

Question:

Do birds ever fly for the pure joy of it, or is it so commonplace to them that they forget how amazing it truly is?

(This is where you go ask your ornithologist friends?  Or, maybe you should ask your philosopher friends?  Whatever you do, don't go asking your psychologist friends though.  I don't think it is fair to try to commit me when I've so frequently admitted my own craziness.  Doesn't that mean I'm not really crazy?)

I have birds on the brain these days.  They have something to do with a new story in my head, a new, hardly formed, blur of a story that I can't get straight.  The only thing I know is that there are birds in the mix.

I see birds everywhere I look now.  I watch them, awed by their flights across the grey sky.  With every stroke of their wings, they beat back the sinking feeling in my chest.  They make the winter gloom more bearable.

It may just be my old friend Serendipity, but there seem to be a butt-load of birds around these days.  A butt-load?  Really?  You wonder to yourselves.  How many is a butt-load?

It is more than a bevy, flock, covey, charm, flight, host, gaggle, brood, colony, and murder all rolled up together.  It's a big old bunch of birds.

I watched a hawk glide in circles over the woods near my home.  He (it may have been a she, but for our discussion here will just call him Harold) looked so at ease.  Like he wasn't even trying to stay aloft.  Harold made flying look effortless.

It was breathtaking.  But, then I wondered if Harold maybe wasn't so taken by flying anymore.  Maybe Harold woke up on the wrong side of the nest today and screeched, "Crap!  I gotta fly all the way over to that branch there?  Really?"

And then he sighed, all exasperated with his lot in life because, lets face it, he's got to fly all over the place really.  Fly to see his girlfriend.  Fly to find food.  Fly to get a drink.  Fly to the cast party (that's what a group of hawks is called - a cast).  Fly, fly, fly.  It's exhausting.

I can relate.

I started thinking about all the things I get to do in this life that should be an amazing joy, but end up just being a big freaking chore.  Things like taking care of my beautiful home, hanging out with my kids, going to the gym, feeding my family, caring for my ancient-ass dog.  You know, pretty much everything.

Poor Harold.  Poor, pitiful me.

I watched him land on the very tippy-top of a tall waving pine.  He flapped his wings twice more and then folded them on his back.  He looked so beautiful, so blessed, so right where he is supposed to be.  I hope he knows that.  He probably does.  I'm betting birds are way smarter than us about that kind of stuff.

Which means they probably enjoy every moment of flight.  At least that's what I'm going to tell myself.  And the next time I'm making a chore out of flying, I'll try to remember my buddy Harold.