Bird
In A Cage
The
tropical bird was a rare
pet, labeled exotic.
The vibrant hues of his
plumage could rival the
stock in the trendiest
flower shop. The price
of ownership was dear,
several hundred dollars.
The bird was revered, a
source of pride to his
owners. He enjoyed
the frequent stroking.
To the delight of
visiting onlookers, he
would nod his head and
squawk with great
articulation, "How
do you do?"
After hearing the
expected chuckles of
amusement, he would
mimic the chortles and
croak out, "Smarter
than you!"
He
was well fed, only the
best. His gilded
cage was an
imitation of an upscale
Manhattan apartment.
It was spacious with
decor simulating his
native rainforest.
Perched on a limb of an artificial
tree, he was afforded a
magnificent window view
of emerald grass,
towering trees, open
sky, and all the busy
activities of life. With
his beak, he scratched
an itch under his left
clipped wing and he was
taken back to
"before," when
he was free, when he
could fly. He would
soar, float with the
wind. He was one
with the sky. He
looked down on the world
and he was above
everything petty.
He was free.
Since
my diagnosis with
Stiffman Syndrome, I
feel many emotions.
For the most part, I am
optimistic, happy, and I
cope. On occasion,
I have my moments when I
feel like that beloved
pet bird, living in
a cage, my SMS body.
I have a comfortable
home, am looked after,
and loved. My
purpose can seemingly be
whatever it is someone
may want or need me to
be at a particular
moment. I am
exotic and while others
get caught up in their
everyday lives, it is
overlooked that I only
have the window view.
My wings are clipped.
I cannot participate
like "before."
It is sometimes hard to
find me in the confusion
of blurred identity
roles of relationships
and illness.
While
these periods of morose
do not happen often,
they happen. My
courage shatters and the
unshed tears within me
will fall. It is
cathartic for me, a
cleansing. I do
not believe in living
with "what might
have been," but it
is only human to grieve.
I believe it is
necessary, at times, to
acknowledge the loss of
who and what I
"was." It
is only when I allow
myself a brief mourning
that I can fully
put the past, pre-SMS,
into perspective and
view that period of my
life with wistful
nostalgia instead of
bitterness. After a
storm, the sun will come
out, shimmering in the
brilliance of a
rainbow's promise.
After
the emotional purging of
a pity storm, I focus on
my reality with
determination, optimism,
and purpose. The
negative "before,"
"did," and "was"
can become a positive
"now,"
"do," and
"is."
Once again, I am
renewed.
"She
was no longer wrestling
with the grief, but
could sit down with it
as a lasting companion
and make it a sharer in
her
thoughts."--George
Eliot--
"When
the heart grieves over
what is has lost, the
spirit rejoices over
what it has
left."--Sufi
Epigram