If I ever got a tattoo, I think I'd get one of a bird, simply because they symbolize so much-both as an inspiration, and as a caution. [Update: As of now, my tattoo status is this: Never getting one, because pain, and AIDS, and permanence, and deciding, and ew, but hypothetically, I'd get a trio of a
nightingale,
a mockingbird, and a
bluejay circling on the part where my wrist meets my palm.]
Love. Fragility. Strength. Perseverance. Peace. Determination. Beauty. Sharing. Togetherness. Simplicity. Belief. Innocence. Naivete.
There's just so much to learn from birds. How to overcome,
everything. Rebuild, again, and again, and again. Migrate, again, and again, and again. Love, live, lay. I sat in my garden today and just watched them. There was a little water on the ground, waste water, left over from when the garden had been watered. They'd creep in, in twos or threes, always in pairs-a bird was never alone for long, even if it came down alone. Some would drink, taking a sip and then looking all around, bobbing their little heads, looking out for danger. Some seemed to be bathing, sinking their upper bodies into the water, then shivering violently to get rid of the droplets, and flying away to perch on a tree, preening. Then again, they'd hop down, repeat the same procedure over and over again, four of them, in a little puddle of water, completely ignoring the little birdbath kept near the tree for their leisure.
Until I looked up once and they were gone.
It would be cliched to say I learned so much from that half an hour's experience, and also false, because I didn't learn anything new. Everything which was to be said about birds, has already been said. We've all thought about being them, and they've been the muses of poets for decades.I even have an unfinished post sitting in my own drafts box, entitled "This is me thinking about being a bird."
And yet, this post.
I would want to be a bird, for their freedom, for their togetherness, for their innocence and for their simplicity, everything I mentioned above. I wouldn't want to be a bird, for their life, for their dangers, for every moment fraught with risk, for their misplaced innocence--sit still for long enough, and a bird will fly its way right into your hand, to be crushed, destroyed, or frightened away.
Birds, butterflies-they were not made for this world, like flies were, or humans. And yet they survive, and they show
us how to survive. A tiny, tiny little creature, inquisitive, daring, bright, beautiful--showing
us the way of life. And, perhaps, its meaning.
~Sam
