So when the world kicked me out of it, the moving world. When I flew off the horse and ended my April of moving with the slam of cement, it was a stop.
Stop what you’re doing. I learned.
I get home and the huge outside is now shrunken down to only this deck outside my room and I roll out there for the first time and there is still the sky and the birds are chirping, they are having a party of chirping and I don’t have to get anywhere, I can just look at trees and individual leaves that never get anywhere either. I was looking at how far away the horses are and the chickens, over land I’ve trudged busily a million times, land I can’t cross in wheels not legs. The distance is far, lumpy, and I can’t make the path straight in my mind. So I have to stop.
So I just listened to the birds and then there was this little sharp chirp, like behind the chair. I kept looking behind me, it was so loud and close. No bird. The sound was near. I looked next to the house. No. More chirps. I looked next to me under the table. Nothing. I kept hearing the sound, it was right next to me.
I looked under my leg on the wheelchair. On the silver metal bend of the chair, under my leg, right under my leg, is a teeny tiny bird with a tiny head and little brown eyes, just sitting there, twitching her tail and looking up at me.
Have you ever been wounded and then found a little bird chirping at you right under your leg?
I couldn’t believe she was there, she was the size of a Christmas ornament. She chirped a few funny things to me kind of authoritatively, but with a cock of her head, she let me look at her so I knew she was there not imagined, and then she flew off.
I stared at where she was, with a kind of hopeful ridiculous happiness from surprise. She had chirped her message deliberately to me, from under my leg: hello, there are surprises. Even the kind that stop your life for awhile. She cocked her head, not done chirping to me, an inch from my body: Of course, I am right here, under your leg. Just like your horses are always. Don’t be mad at the horse, he is a creature like you. He is warm and sleek and seeking adventure and comfort, just like you. You need his clip clopping. So use my voice to heal your bones, use all my friends chirping out here to lighten your heart the way the horse under you and the open trail and creek usually easily lightens your heart. Pretend the earth isn’t turning so slowly, and look up at the sky and wait and you’ll be back in a place soon where the birds will once again just be in the background, and the vast green world will be in front of you and you can just follow the trail.
Maybe you will never forget the little bird who came to tell you, broken trail traveler with your useless toes, that you will sing again. In the meantime she will sing for me, right here, under my leg. Right over there on the edge of the pool, right everywhere, all of us singing even still right now, for everyone stuck in the road, or waiting. Don’t forget to keep your heart open for the tiniest thing. What else is our singing for?
My friend Rebecca writes to me on my phone.
How is your little bird, she asks.
