There is something about they way they soar past me, sometimes zipping by, other times riding a wind current. It catches my attention, slows my breathing. It seems so effortless, playful, free. And that is what I wish for. The audacity to go about my own activity blithely – cheerfully trusting that my next landing place is sturdy and safe, so occupied with the moment that I forget what I might look like, using the voice I have to give utterance to whatever wells up inside me. I would like to be as free as a bird.
These days I’m busy at home, but instead of building my nest in the bird-frenzy taking place outside my windows, I’m dismantling it – one drawer, one cupboard, one closet at a time. Change has arrived, another transatlantic move. It didn’t come easily. The weight of it seemed unbearable, anchoring me fast. I’ll be the first to say that this Scandinavian journey hasn’t been easy, but it has been my own and I’ve grown. I’ve learned to embrace the rough spots as my teachers, recognizing the bleakness as the place of cultivation of spirit. I have come to cherish this little corner of the world, in dark winter days and long summer days, in nose-numbing cold and skin-soothing warmth. It is my home and I didn’t favor giving it up.
But change is inevitable, like the arrival of the seasons, like the day fading to night and lighting to day. This is why I felt for spring starting over recently. That taught me that there is no rulebook – sometimes there will be two winters to overcome – and really, as I’ve been learning, this can only be good. So I try to keep up the pace with my packing, keeping an eye on the birds. Flitting, streaming, diving by and I can’t help but smile because inside I’m learning to do that too.