Self-Image

WHOOO ARE YOU?

Animals I merge with

Sometimes before I go to sleep, I wonder about some of the intangibles and abstractions that affect my life. Instead of ruminating on specific tasks I’ve done or have to do tomorrow, I take a big brush and paint my personal landscape. Many images inhabit my landscape, but chief among them are the various facets of my being. Some of them are spiritual, but others are animal.

Yes, I pray to my animal totems because they are important parts of my landscape just as the owl, trout, and wolf are important parts of their ecosystems. They have their jobs to do, and they do them to the best of their abilities. I too have work that must be done but it’s anyone’s guess how well I do it. But sometimes by conceptualizing my totems, I find the strength and courage to carry on.

My totems are those creatures I respect and associate myself with. I often ask what would I be in the animal biosystem if I traded my human characteristics for animal ones? Would I be a bird, a mammal, a reptile, a rodent? What creature of the earth most represents my abilities, talents, desires, goals, needs, and wants? And when I pose that question, the answer I often get is the cardinal or the owl. But those are false answers, false totems. The owl and cardinal do not complement my philosophy of life or my palette of behaviors. They do not reflect the essence of me.

First off, the cardinal is too beautiful and elegant. Its intelligence is written on its scarlet plumage and regal crown. No, I am not the cardinal though I wish I were. But I still honor this bird and aspire to its quiet displays of confidence. Once in a small woodsy area of South Carolina, near the town of Conway, my friend and I saw more cardinals in 15 minutes than I had seen in a decade. Silent and serene, they paid no attention to us. Our movements did not alarm them nor our voices. They flew from tree to tree taunting our cameras. But no iPhone could capture their loveliness.

Neither am I like the owl, that gorgeous predator of the night. I once saw two Great Horned owls sitting in trees barely ten yards from my house. It was just dusk, and they were planning their evening ravages. Would they attack those long eared-rabbits I liked to see scampering around the neighborhood, or would they attempt more ambitious prey? And what would that be? A stray cat? A tiny pup wandering in a neighbor’s yard. That worried me, but it didn’t stop me from gawking at these two owls that flew once, twice and then hopped onto a warm air current and abandoned me forever. I never saw them again, not for want of trying, and I’m the poorer for that.

I know what my true totem is. It is those Arizona hummingbirds that flit back and forth near the rose bushes and June bugs. I observe them from my kitchen and office windows. Their nervous energy intensifies the anxiety always coursing through my body, but it’s their vulnerability that I most identify with. They are so fragile physically that a puff of air might slow their descent or ascent. Hummingbirds are so diminutive in size that I fear they cannot stand up to any predator at all. How do they defend themselves? Do they possess some special powers that dissuade the hawks and owls from inhaling them?

I am like the hummingbird in that I face many predators thanks to my vulnerability — my fragility in self-confidence and self-image. My predators are criticism and callous indifference; they attack from all sides, blindside me when they can and spin me around and around like a top so that I lose my perspective and balance. They can easily gobble me up and spit me into a competitive world that cares little for my contributions and goals.

And like the hummingbird, I only earn compliments by spending huge amounts of time in my metaphorical gardens and orchards gathering nectar and displaying my multi-colored photogenic wings. I must work hard at my chosen career, which is freelance writing, just to glean a few laurels that inspire me to keep trying to hone my craft. In verbal venues I display the best of my talents: a love of words, humor, and the everyday foibles and troubles of ordinary people. Yes, I think of myself as one of those ordinary people who wing from assignment to assignment, hoping the next one will prove to someone that I am more than average.

And yet the hummingbird counts itself as average. Plentiful at least in the desert, it enjoys its daily tasks and does not fault itself for not visiting enough gardens or gathering enough nectar. I am unlike the hummingbird in this respect. At the end of many days, I find myself frustrated by my accomplishments and disappointed in my behavior.

And unlike the hummingbird, which can blend into many backgrounds and thus hide from predators, I do not have that flexibility. I cannot hide from criticism or change my talents or appearance to achieve greater success. I am not that malleable. I must be satisfied with my God-given gifts, be they small or large.

I write the way the hummingbird flies — straight ahead, direct but sometimes spiraling in a circumlocutory way. I choose my routes according to whim. The hummingbird does the same, now circling these yellow and blue bushes, approaching each flower tentatively as if it might reach out with its blossoms and snatch a tiny bird who only comes to sample its wares. I approach life in the same tentative way, never really sure whether my words will offend or illuminate.

The hummingbird knows no self-limits but must bend to the prevailing environment and climate. If the wind is too blustery, the insect-sized hummingbird may be tossed from tree to ground cover in an instant, or if the weather is too hot or rainy, it may affect his ability to fly and gather the building blocks of life: food and water. I have even more limits. I am tethered by my brain, knowledge, the past, determination, and responsibilities while this winged creature has the freedom to fly into the sun and bathe himself in the glory of another new day.

But with all these exceptions and differences I most cleave to the hummingbird. I love the long beak that siphons syrupy goodies into its wispy body. If I were that hummingbird, I’d fly and fly all day long on the energy I sucked in. And when the night came, I’d curl my tiny wings to resemble a fat berry and dream of distances far away.