Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting on my couch doing some work when a bird outside caught my attention. It was a young sparrow who had alighted on the obelisk just outside the living room window. At least, I think it was a young sparrow. It was fully grown, but it kept its mouth open in that baby bird, begging-to-be-fed way, and I've noticed before that young birds do that.
For some reason, this particular bird decided he wanted to come through our window. I don't know how much he could see of the interior through the glass; it was very bright outside, and we had no lights on in here. But something captured his attention. He didn't exactly fly into the window, but he kept sitting on his perch and pecking at it and then hopping over to the sill or grabbing onto the screen with his tiny claws and pecking away.
For half an hour, he kept at this, trying first one way and then another. I couldn't help it. I sat there watching him, and I laughed and laughed.
You see, all of yesterday morning I was in an absolutely foul mood. Some days I want nothing so much as to pull a Paul Gaugin and chuck all my responsibilities for the sake of my writing and my art. Yesterday was one of those days, and even though I knew I was making myself unhappy by brooding over the idea, I just couldn't seem to break the rut in my thinking even though I tried to journal through it.
When I saw the bird stubbornly trying to get into my shadowy living room and ignoring the glorious yard that was filled with bugs and worms and seeds and flowers behind him, I felt a jolt of recognition. That was me, pecking desperately at a vague vision that only I could discern and ignoring the wealth of the life around me.
Not the least of which was a tiny bird who made me laugh at myself.