When I first moved away from my college town to a new place–a new change of scenery, and a new life–I started to notice things that I likely would not have stopped to lend my time to before: the vastness of a meadow, the quiet calm of an office balcony, the patterns of a familiar flock of birds.
This flock of birds was present nearly every day in this area that I lived and worked, and they fascinated me. I knew they had to be blackbirds or starlings, or something delicate, capable, and swift. I took an interest in this flock, mostly because I grew up in a small, quiet town with a diverse population of wildlife, and I had never seen birds do what this flock would accomplish. They almost danced to a perfect rhythm that only they could hear. They resembled smoke from a distance, taunted by the wind yet taunting back. I started reading about them, and I learned that the flocking behavior parallels that of fish. I learned that they can possess wing speeds up to 40 mph and turn in an instant, even in large groups. I learned that birds who flock do so out of protection and fear of captivity. I can’t explain why they branded my memory as they did, maybe because I saw them every day in my journey to drop my daughter off at school and to work, and home again, and it felt like they were on the same busy, unpredictable path I was following.
I have a daughter whom I often refer to as “Birdie,” and this is because from the age of two weeks old, to five months old, to almost two years old, she has made gestures and produced mannerisms that coincide with what my idea of a baby bird must be like. She also loves birds and grows frustrated with me when I am not able to catch one and bring it to her so she can introduce herself to this tiny, high-spirited creature, kindred in nature. I watch her learn patterns and words, and I am amazed. Her capabilities far outreach everything I could possibly show her. Even when I can show her, she prefers to learn for herself in some cases, and I choose to let her.
I grasp some tiny, fragmented, partial concept, then, of how God loves me. I have learned that the expectation of what you imagine anything in this life to look, or feel, or help, or hurt like, never does. And the pieces have to break, the learning has to come, the blessings have to pour, the experiences have to build on their own, and He lets them. He allows it. And that isn’t the case of punishment or being forsaken or forgotten, or usually, however we perceive the circumstance to be. It is to let us be, and choose, and learn.
In reading about these birds, I also learned that weight plays a tremendous role in the capability of flying. It is a force produced by gravity, and every flyer has to produce lift in order to counteract weight. Despite moving through the air, everything moving forward produces a drag, which slows it down. It is then up to the persistence and perseverance of the flyer to oppose the force of the drag by producing a forward-moving thrust. What an incredible concept that parallels our lives.
I learned a lot about birds, and I can’t explain why, but I’m glad that I did, because it showed me that we really are all the same.
God bless,
M
Blue Withens 