Bird Talk

 I'm reading an "old" book this summer. It was published in 1986. One short section most mornings. Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within by Natalie Goldberg. I bought it ages ago and I believe I didn't get very far because one of the first things she says is that writing is a journey of exploring the truth of what is. And like Jack Nicholson said in A Few Good Men, "You can't handle the truth!" I couldn't. I couldn't handle the truth of my inner life in turmoil, the weight of lies that I believed about myself. So, unconsciously I slipped the volume into my library and kept the pain inside. But it never stays inside. It pours out and wounds those in my orbit.

I can see this now. Now, as I read her passages, I can see that I wasn't ready for Natalie's words at that time. Or maybe, had I persisted, I would have begun the healing process earlier. No matter. Here I am.

Today's reading was about writing first lines. Write a bunch of first lines and go with the ones you like the best. Write a first line and then just see where it takes you. Don't be afraid of being absurd. "You will succeed if you are fearless of failure." (My idea of success is atypical. But I will restrain myself from explaining. Maybe that'll be for another post.)

Here's the short piece I wrote while sitting in my backyard this morning watching the cats explore, tasting an oat milk cappuccino, smelling the grass, feeling the cool, gentle breeze on my bare legs, and listening to the birds.

Bird Talk

"Teach me bird language," I asked Google. There's an app for that. Well, one that recognizes bird varieties by their vocalizations. I guess I have to start somewhere.

I sit with my grandpa, both in our own lawn chairs, the ones grandma wove with our names on their backs. "Do you speak bird?"

"Nope. Only prairie-plant speech," he says, as he sips his morning coffee.

"Prairie?" I blurt.

"Yup. Only the speech of prairie plants. It's my native language. Never been anywhere long enough to observe the plant-tongue of another place." He bends over and picks up a leaf...I don't know what kind.

I lean back against the weave of my name. Well, I wanted to understand what birds were saying and talk to them. I saw that Grandpa wasn't going to be any help. I downloaded the app.