I’ve spent the past week bird watching, a fact that will probably surprise most anyone who has known me for any length of time. While I have a huge heart for animals, I am not exactly fowl-friendly (Though I seem to be surrounded by them lately–see also: Bird Extraction 101.)
Birds and I have been at odds ever since the Great Beach Incident of ‘86, when a monster of a seagull swooped down into my unsuspecting face and snatched a cookie right out of my hand, effectively setting into motion a lifetime of being unsettled by anything with flappy wings or pointy beaks.
However, as Holly and I began our after-work ritual (a game of fetch,) I noticed something odd in the back corner of the yard. The flapping of wings caught my eye, and I watched, fascinated, as a young bird struggled to launch himself into the air.
I sat, transfixed, for half an hour as the little guy would psych himself up, hunker down, and leap, flapping with all his might, only to get a foot or two off the ground each time. I was so proud of him when he finally made it to the bottom board running horizontally along our fence.
He lingered there, taking small tentative steps, like a tiny tightrope walker – I guess he wasn’t ready to let go of this small step toward his goal just yet. Finally, he launched himself off the fence, only to flutter back to the ground, gaining just a few feet mid-air. Before long, he was crouching low, ready to make another attempt. Lather, rinse, repeat.
As I watched the little guy perform this cycle a dozen times (gather up courage, take a leap, flutter, sputter, and fall to the ground,) I thought: How many times have I been there?
How many times have I approached something with everything I could muster, only to be met with frustration and disappointment? I just wanted to say to my little bird: Dude, I know exactly how you feel.