It was cold outside, and soft white snowflakes tumbled from
the gray sky. I was warm indoors and on
my way to the kitchen to make some comfort food. There he was, watching my every move through
the window. His brilliant red feathers
caught me surprise, and I stopped what I was doing to look back at him. There was a long pause as we gazed at one
another. Then I backed away and quickly
tiptoed to the bedroom to grab my camera.
I wanted to digitally capture him, because I knew I would not be able to
catch him with my outstretched hands. I
was relieved to discover he was still posing on the snow-laden branch when I
returned. I was too eager, so he fluttered away. No one wants to be a caged bird.
This seems to be a recurring theme for two days in a
row. Today the song is sung by a bird,
and last evening “Laurie” warbled a similar tune from the stage at Carnegie
Mellon University during a performance of Aaron Copland’s The Tender Land. I felt very
connected to her character, remembering a time I wanted nothing more than to
leave this place and venture out into the world. I couldn’t sprout wings of my own, so I
borrow those of a plane and headed West.
I lived quite fully and found a life that I could love. But that life is behind me now, and I am here
– again.
Confined in my apartment I stare out the window. I lament the loss of my Barcelona Red Corolla
and my desert home with terra cotta roof tiles. At least my kids are using them now. I glimpse the outside world through the
internet with one eye on my crimson laptop, and the other eye straying toward
the window pane. From time to time, I
sometimes escape to wondrous places through the paperless pages of my candy
apple covered Kindle. Is it any wonder why
Mr. Red Wings caught my eye against the snow!
Red seems to be the color of my days, but no. Yarn scraps of many hues are strewn across
the table as I color my world with crochet projects for the grandkids, one by
one. I write them stories and letters to
connect myself to them across the miles, while multi-colored pencils roll
across blank pages of cartoons I forget to draw them. The stew is bubbling on the burner of the
stove and fills the room with tantalizing smells. Blank canvases and tubes of paint wait their
turn until the fresh days of spring and summer waft through the screen,
bringing with them new possibilities of self expression. I wait also, by the window, for the eyes of
feathered friends to look inside my cage and see me soar.
