Le petit oiseau

Oh, what to write?

After months of silence, I wonder what to say.  Should I talk about books I read, things I’ve said, or places I’ve been? Songs I’ve heard, stories I’ve written, dreams I’ve dreamt, adventures I’ve had, milestones I’ve crossed, times I’ve failed?

I’ve been feeling pretty independent lately.  What with my breaching the border into adulthood, and my constant desire to be alone, alone and untouchable, I haven’t wanted a crutch.  People ask me if I’m afraid of my future, and I am. They remind me of how young I am, how naïve and inexperienced, how poor I’ll be on my own next year (or in four years, after I’ll have a degree and can reasonably call myself actually independent, possibly), and how unready (there is no way that ‘unready’ is actually a word) I really am for life.

But these doubters forget that I’ve been taking care of myself for years.  Sure, I’ve never paid rent, but independence shouldn’t be based on finance alone.  I concede that the truly independent can and do pay for their own lives, but there is a form of independence that is completely intellectual, and that is the form of independence that I think I am closest to.

I find freedom in my writing and daydreams, in the hours that I spend behind a windshield each day, and in the moments each night before sleep takes hold of me.  These are the things that are helping me find my wings.  I’m ready to take flight, and each day the day when I’ll be ready gets a little bit closer.

When the day comes, I’m sure I’ll miss everything that I have.  Being alone might not seem so sweet when it’s the only option that I have.

Sitting in my living room, I can see the bird feeder that my mom lovingly keeps filled for the myriad species of birds that populate my backyard.  My sister loves the male cardinals, especially in the snow, because she loves the way that the snow makes their red coats seem especially brilliant.  But I love the chickadees.  They remind me of when I lived in alberta, CA, and chickadees were the only songbirds that I ever saw.  They’re small, and cute, and they don’t demand attention in the way that a bright red coat does.  I like to think of them as shy, but I’m not exactly a bird person, so who knows.  But I like them.  They might be diminutive, but they can fly.  Bound though they may be by their size and stamina, in their own way, they’re free.

So sometimes, I like to think of myself as a chickadee, the little bird who’s about to fly away.


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