I walk slowly down the middle of the late afternoon street, binoculars in hand, head tilted upward, ears searching for the familiar call of the Merlin. I have had the gift of seeing them every so often, and every morning and evening they call; the rhythm of their presence echoes through the neighborhood. I think only a few people in the area understand how special they are, and I have talked to only two other people who have gone out of their way to look for them. Their presence ties me to my time with my ex, and simultaneously feel like a symbol of freedom and possibility. I never expected to be a person who watches birds, and that is why I think I love the activity so much; I have found such joy in something I never even considered interesting. I will admit that I first wanted to learn to bird because it would mean I would spend more time with my beloved, but I soon caught the fever of the activity, and while I am not sure I will ever be as good as my ex, I have become familiar with so many birds and their habits that I feel as if I have uncovered an entire universe full of brilliant potential that has managed to in some way inform my own. Birds are dependable and consistent, yet ultimately serve as a reminder to be brave, take risks, to fly. They are beautiful, and these Merlins, they are fierce. They hunt and move so quickly that they are hard to see. Very often you only know that a Merlin was there by the racket and the frenzy stirred up in the flock of birds that are left after she has taken one from the crowd for a meal. Two days ago I woke early when I heard their call. I used to wake up to 5 am text messages from my ex going to fires. As I wandered down the early morning street searching for the Merlins, I remembered those early hour messages and how connected and sweet it was to share with him. It was a strange world to me, the leaving for an entire summer to fight fires in the west, but I enjoyed missing him. I came to see him as seasonal as the birds we would count together in the winter. He left when the birds were migrating and came back as they were returning. It was a perfect rhythm that gave a sacred structure to my time with him. Now I am structure-less. So I listen for the gift of the Merlins, and I try and create my own structure from the rhythms I have created in his absence. He was as consistent as the birds he taught me to appreciate, and I can only hope that I will pick up on that a bit too; that consistency might rub off on me a bit more, and within dependability I might find the freedom to fly.
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Sara YoungIs an artist, a philosopher, a writer and a teacher. She will be writing random thoughts here. Follow along if you are interested. BlogThis is the NEW Blog on Creativity. I have started it here to continue on the many years of writing I have done here and in other places. Subscribe to my Newsletter below if you want updates every time I write a blog, which will be once a week. Old Site |