Friday, March 4, 2011

FEBRUARY 32, 2011 - the end

How fitting, Thou drollest of Stage Directors, to call me out today for one more dove release.

why eye . . . must change my life

Okay, homing pigeon.

Not the sign of inspiration winging in, but that common bird, hardy and resilient with a useful trick of knowing how to come home - and yes, I get the significance there. (I am willing to be Thy pigeon, if Thou wilt plant in me a sure way home.)  Pigeon made dove  by word alone when I say the words:  To conclude this service, this pure white dove will be released as a symbol . . . 

"You and your symbols,"  my friend said recently, trying to rein me in.  Shaking her head at the way I had waxed ecstatic describing the shabby-but-graceful fox-trotting middle-aged couple who'd danced a private enactment of the lightness and forbearing unity that is one kind of marriage.  My friend was shaking her head at me like I made these "symbol" thingies up myself.

why eye . . . still dream of flying

But did I do this bird trick?  Did I arrange the plot so neatly?  Did I set out to begin and end this long, overlong, stretched-over-two-years-long, who-am-I-and-where-am-I-going scene like this?  I did not.

Pigeons and funerals?  Not my doing.  I never saw it coming until just now.

I'm just catching Thy joke.  Appreciating Thy sly wit.  

why eye . . . remember I have wings
Because Thou knowest it was that long-ago funeral-bird-fiasco that drove me to begin this blog in the first place. As an incident too perfectly apt to my situation then.  An outward picture of an inward truth. (i.e. SYMBOL and not of my making)

Only Thou and I remember how much I needed an Imaginary Bicycle, some un-ordinary vehicle, to help me to recover all those too-soon departing doves pigeons doves.  My fledgling chicks, my long-flown ambitions.  (i.e. more SYMBOLS, partly made but mostly found)

I nodded Thy direction last month, when in January (#12) I was called out of the blue, after two years, to once again release another "dove" at a funeral.  I acknowledged it as a sentence remitted, a curse undone, a silly but symbolic second cosmic chance.

why eye . . . am not my cage

When nothing went wrong -- the bird flew as birds should do and at the right spot in time --  I felt the holding pattern I've been stuck in -- for lo, these two too-many years -- was maybe breaking up at last.  That the filibuster was maybe hemming and hawing into his handkerchief, going hoarse at last.  (okay, this symbol I made up myself -- but see? nothing like so powerful and corporeal as Thine).

In the flesh, last month, I held a laugh of release inside my chest (feeling inside something died, something about to be reborn) while I watched two old brothers trying to coordinate their swing-and-toss of a silly bird, symbolic of their father's soul, back into the air.  After saying my magic-symbolic words of transformation and putting the pigeon-now-dove into their hands, I tried to keep my face suitably sober as these two tear-softened gray-haired brothers together tossed their pigeon-dove into the air.

Being a mixed creature myself, I was jubilant standing amid the grievers to feel that maybe my cycle was grinding into action once again.

why eye . . . have flown
Today the grieving family couldn't decide who should release the bird.  After swinging back and forth, they tossed the action to me, as a neutral and unrelated and thus innocent bystander.

And so I held the bird in my own hands and felt beneath my own fingers the eager feathers, the certain strength of wing muscles. Feeling inside myself at the same time the eager heart, the greedy mind, the glowing prospects ahead of me. 

With mourners all around me, jubilant I swung my clasped hands up, jumping a little onto my toes the way you do, watching this feathered hopeful creature take to the sky.

I stood a long moment, with all the other upturned faces, witnessing that lovely bird wing her way unhesitatingly home.

And I just have to say, Nicely played, MaestroNicely played.


Mrs. Organic said...

I need to more about this. Please say this isn't the end. A new beginning perhaps?

Lisa B. said...

I have lots of reactions to all of your latest posts, but have hesitated to write comments because I fear I am missing crucial information. Perhaps, somewhere in the in-between, a chat? And in which of those dual degree programs (previous post) will you be enrolled? And more about those doves. Pedantically, I want to know the details!!! (pardon those extra exclamation points. They are for emphasis.)

Clowncar said...

call me shallow, but I got stuck on the idea of bird catastrophe at a funeral. it would make a good story.

Emma J said...

Clowncar - not shallow at all. It did make a pretty good story (See "Perils with Pigeons" -- but I think it would make an even better opening scene of a B-movie!

Lisa B. - definitely a chat - I have been thinking and thinking of something you said this past summer and it has inspired me to DO instead of just wait.

Mrs O - let's call it perpetual reinvention, shall we? My version of meta-shmorphic.

fresca said...

The pigeon/dove nomenclature is a perfect example of the power of words:

At a wedding, who would say, "We shall release these pigeons as a symbol of our love"?

Or at a funeral, "This pigeon represented the departed's soul"?

Lovely pictures & images, by any name.

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