Will you fly?
You live a leafy life, lounging round your tree house, gazing out the library window, overlooking lush lemon groves.
Even so, life in an enchanted garden is not all roses… You have tough spells.
One winter afternoon, while feather-dusting in your library, you feel a little sap rising. Which makes you sneeze.
You hope it’s not another difficult spell. You’ve been having mood swings lately...
Wake up! you admonish yourself, suddenly. Life is mossy!
At least you still have your puns.
You’ve been trying to manage these unfortunate outbursts by counting your blessings…
But you feel restless. Flighty. Scratchy. Restless. As if things could be better. Blessings, fleecier. And dreams, bolder.
You practice deep breathing, gazing out the library window…
Beyond the lightly frosted pane, there’s a bird’s nest with a chick nestled inside, ready to fly. Such a patchy little hatchling. Messily molting its downy ways. Testy about its wings.
It scratches a little hole in your heart.
Just the thought of flying alarms you. Anyone flying! But especially you.
Never again! you say, as you flutter into flashbacks of past failure.
But your gaze returns to the nest. Beyond the window — that bold little bird! Fierce feathered chickling — she wants to test her wings. And live in a flourishing world. Bless her.
Such vital extravagance makes you smile. You feel proud of her lively defiance, as she grows up all ruffled and flighty.
Whoa! Tripping over your bookended selves, you crash into your library shelves.
Clearly — it is a difficult spell!
Stop it! you shout, thrashing in clouds of pages on the library floor. People will think you’re crazy!
Who care’s what they think! you reply mutinously, realizing you are crazy — It seems like the only rational response, given the circumstances.
You try to stop your head from spinning. But it’s too late. You whirl and tip in the tree house, tumbling through a series of your trap-doors — ingeniously hidden throughout your home. (Building booby traps used to be a hobby.)
Clattering down through your unlit stories, you come to rest in a crumpled heap in the cellar, growing intimate with the webs of life.
You have a few grazes. But at least you’re not irony deficient.
You pout there — for a day or two — until you begin to feel better. And peckish, too.
You dust off a few shaken selves. Straightening the pinstripes on your pajamas, you climb the spiral staircase to the kitchen, practicing your most self-possessed walk.
At least you still have your dignity.
Making a cup of dandelion tea, you steep deeply in dried petals. Gazing at the wood grain on the tabletop. Stirring. You think about that time, back in another season, when you first fancied yourself alight … still wincing at the flashbacks.
It’s so vivid, in your mind’s eye — the day you crashed and burned. It singes your synapses with shame, how you lay smoldering in a pile of your own incinerated feathers, following the delirium of your Icarian moment.
You can still feel the burn.
But you take another sip of dandelion tea — revising your recollections.
Stirring in constellations of phoenix re-creations.
Now you come to think of it — you crash-landed in a damp pile of freshly turned compost. Which soothed you, softly.
And while not everyone takes comfort in compost, quite like you do — you begin to feel renewed.
This is our time, you say, grabbing your downy jacket and heading out the door.
And before you know it, you are standing outside, beneath the tree. Feeling surprised that it’s cold.
Out here. In the rain.
After all, it is mid-winter. Or early spring — depending on how hopeful you feel. About the climate.
Stamping your feet. It’s easier to feel hopeful if you’re active, you remind yourself, shivering with anticipation. Ready to launch.
And here’s the thing, sweet fledgling — you are falling in love with the sky…
And it’s dicey.
A tough spell.
Even so…
Will you fly?