There’s a robin who keeps flying into our bedroom window.
The first time it happened, I dismissed it (as much as one can dismiss a sentient creature hitting a solid object) as a misjudgment in the flight path. The second time, I realized the bird needed help. So I started closing the drapes (figuring he was seeing through the window and thinking there was space). No luck. Poor little guy kept hitting it–and I was so grateful there’s a large tree in front of the window because it meant he had to come in slow, which meant he ran less risk of really hurting himself. I took to taking my breaks in the mid-afternoon, at about the time he’d come around and then tapping the window so he’d fly away. I looked for chimes, but couldn’t find any, so I opted for printing off a picture of an owl and taping it to the window. This last method met with success. I haven’t seen him around, since.
But, being one of those people who’s convinced the universe talks to her, I started wondering about what lesson there was in this story.
Is it that sometimes we beat ourselves against walls, when what we really need to do is take another path?
Is it that sometimes we’re oblivious to others trying to save us from harm and rather than looking at the ways they’re trying to help, continue to make a potentially destructive choice?
Is it that objects in a window are sometimes more real than they appear and when taking a new journey, it’s best to go slow and steady?
What about the path to our destination is not always as clear or straight as we would like to believe and sometimes, in order to get where we want, we need to take a convoluted route?
Maybe it’s one of these, maybe it’s none. I’m not sure. I blame the writing. I’ve been plotting and editing, figuring out subplots and tangents, and apparently, it’s affecting every aspect of my life…