My nickname has been "the bird" since I was a little girl. A name I was given by my dad when I was roughly three years of age and trying to fly with determination and utter disregard for life and limb. The name stuck. I have been changing the idea of "flying" away and toying with the idea of "staying"and opening to the uncertainties of life. Several years ago I did a series of self portraits embracing various expressions of the psyche. Recently, I have found myself drawing again. In fact I began this drawing, 11x14 graphite, two nights ago and although it is far from complete I am sharing it. While working on it I found myself becoming ridiculously giddy. Then the thought hit me right between the eyes ..."THE BIRD". My nickname. And I have been laughing ever since.
Yes, I know it doesn't look like much. It was only about 5 inches in diameter and 8 feet tall. The root ball was no more than 3 feet deep. But it was a sweet red-bud tree that we planted the year Bodhi was born, his placenta was buried in it's roots and like many of the trees in our neighborhood, it died (see this post to understand why) . I can't say that I mourned its death in a tangible way, rather it produced in me a sort of unnameable melancholy. I am a woman who loves the spring. I nearly live for it. When the first signs of life emerge like a haze of hope, I drink in green with the passion of a desert crawling woman sipping at an oasis. I gorge. This year has been hard. Our neighborhood isn't leafing out in native splendor, instead the tired trees seem to begrudge the effort, only offering a tender shoot or bud occasionally. The north side of many trees appear to have given up all together, too tired after a long winter...
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Perfect.