Once, in a narrow alley on a steep hill covered in cobblestones, there was a birdcage nailed to the wall outside of a small apartment building. Inside the cage was a tiny sparrow-like bird. It would hop from the bars on the left to its perch in the middle to the bars on the right, frantic as you'd expect a creature under these circumstances to be. All around it, the bird saw people passing, cats padding along below, a pearl-and blue-colored sky changing colors above, bikes rambling wildly down the cobblestone hill and through the alley to the streets beyond...
That frantic bird surrounded by motion and color.
I think these phases come and go in life where you feel like you're stuck to the wall, growing more and more panicked as you convince yourself of immobility. And everyone around you seems to be passing easily by. You look out every available crevice and see a churn of colors, change, decisions, directions -- maybe not perfect decisions and directions, but all part of the exciting swirl of motion.
Recently, in two separate conversations, I was reminded that making no decision is a decision in itself. (And it's kind of a wimpy option.) In another conversation, in the not so distant past, I admitted to being a perpetual sitter-on-the-fence-er who lets wind or worry push her one way or the other on a decision. Now, that's truer than I like to admit.
To free the bird from its prison in the busy alley could mean any number of things. It could mean the bird flies off to a beautiful jacaranda tree to nest. It could mean the bird glides out to the ocean and sees something vaster than it ever imagined. It could mean the bird happens into an even narrower alley filled with hungry cats, or that it flies into a window and breaks a wing.
Any number of casualties and every possibility of discovery. And no knowing for sure.
Now to just make a decision and move in a direction.