(Oh hello, you've walked in on a random stream of consciousness.)
Birds seem to be some sort of metaphor in our lives. Before I could safely identify Jacob here I referred to him as J and called him my friend, my free bird, who I had set free and he came back anyway. Blackbird for a treasured song, magpie because I like the word though if I do recall without searching too far there is something sinister about magpies. Owls because of the owl jokes, appropriate for all ages when so much of this world is not, an innocent nod to a haven in the little tiny cabin that we can escape to every so often when it's warm enough and sometimes even when it's not. Feeling safe.
Magnets and copper and reiki and the power of positive thinking and lovebeads and peace vibes, holistic mindfucks aren't going to do this. Eating a raw diet and living a world devoid of negativity isn't going to do it. Immersing myself in some songs and a red hot bath aren't going to do anything at all.
All of it an up and a down on a long and hilly Sunday drive, where when the sun dips low and a rumble ripples through our stomach while we stop for a picnic by the river and look at each other in surprise, as if we were so grateful for the company, it being the one person we would have most wished to be with right then.
And later when you awaken from a dream that wasn't good, covered with sweat and gasping for breath you rise into the protective arms of that person you wished for once again and you forget the details and the feelings and the fears and he tells you of the river. And the bird that he saw while you ignored nature within reach and licked blackberry jam off the tips of your fingers.
You hear the birds outside your window in a grayscale morning, the cold icicles of winter's final push clearing a path around your warmth and the chirps remind you of March which is about to step into your life for the first time all year.
You wind a scarf around your neck like a European fashion doll and someone offers you a cup of tea and it warms you right out to the edges of your bones like that warm bath and you wish you had a switch for these sensations...and others.
And a vintage pattern triggers a memory from dozens of years ago in which you snuck a gingerbread cookie into your room where there was a little Christmas tree decorated with red balls and glitzy tinsel and your turtleneck was three sizes too big but not for long because you just noticed you can see over the top of your bureau and in the mirror your little cherub face is covered with crumbs, crumbs laced through your curly blonde pigtails and crumbs all over your chubby little hands but you don't care.
Because there are birds outside your window and a brownie owl on your wall.
And a man singing Blackbird in your future, but you don't know about him yet.
