Behind my tiny apartment at Warner there is a patch of
grass- so small that I hesitate to call it a backyard- where several fruit trees
have grown bowed over from the ever present Portland precipitation. The next
door neighbors (not Warner students) have an actual backyard where they have
allowed at least a years’ worth of weeds and random growth to accumulate into a
small jungle type habitat from which they feed their cat along with the local raccoon
population. Between the readily available cat food and the leftovers that my
other neighbors like to toss out their back window, you can imagine the variety
of ‘wildlife’ that frequents my apartment complex.
One of the only reasons I open my blinds anymore is to watch
the birds that flit around between these three yards, collecting food and hopping
around like little kernels of popcorn in a microwave. Yesterday while I was
cleaning the kitchen I had the blinds open and I noticed a flash of color
amongst the customary finches and juncos.
It turned out to be a Western Scrub-Jay (pictured above). I
stopped bleaching the kitchen sink to watch it fly across my field of vision
four or five times before settling on the lowest branch of a fruit tree just outside
my window. Sitting on the kitchen table now, I watched the bluebird look around
as if surveying the area before hopping up to the branch directly above him.
One by one the bird slowly made his way to the top of the fruit tree and I
couldn’t help but to laugh. Why didn’t it just fly to the top? Flutter-hopping
looked like a lot of work, especially when he could have been to the top with
two flaps of his wings. I mean, if I was a bird I would definitely have flown.
I think….
Right?
Lost in thought, I didn’t notice when the Scrub-Jay finally took flight. He was just gone. I got back to bleaching the sink but soon enough my thoughts returned to the bluebird. Maybe he didn’t fly away, maybe hopped away. I didn’t actually see that part so he could easily have left either way. What would I have done? I would love to say with certainty that I would fly away with the breeze- but I would surely be lying. As a bird I would clearly have the ability to fly; two wings, hollow bones, thousands of feathers, my body could do it. My mind, however, is a different matter entirely. Holding the image of that little blue jay in my head I began to tally up the times in my life that I have chosen to hop rather than to fly.
Metaphorical or not, it turns out I am a full-time hopper…. How embarrassing. I have always admitted to hesitancy to trust people and situations, even God. But the thoughts that the Western Scrub-Jay brought up seemed to point to a new variable- myself. Because if I know that I am able to do something and I still choose not to do it out of fear and doubt that is all on me. Nobody is telling me that I can’t fly (at least nobody worth listening to) and I’m pretty sure I have left the nest so the question now is: Why the hell am I still hopping??
Needless to say the kitchen is spotless now. In the time it
took me to form that simple question I washed the dishes, scrubbed out the
sink, wiped the counters and swept the floor. Like it or not I have no good
answer.
The blinds on the kitchen windows are still open.
