I don’t see them that often and when I do, as I said, I smile. I feel like life is good. Great even. I know that I feel that life is great because I’ve decided that they mean that life is great – but I feel like life is great anyway. Maybe it’s because I see them so seldom and I feel favored when I do. Like someone is showering a smile and unending love upon me. Maybe it’s just because they’re pretty.
The other day I was walking into town, to meet someone for a networking coffee, and I was wondering if I should reach out to announce my blog. Should I post it on Facebook? Should I ask people to read it? Should I reach out to authors I know, and people who know authors I know, and ask them to read and endorse my manuscript?
I knew it was something I “had” to do to promote the book. I knew that I needed a “platform” in order to better sell the book. I needed to be big – bigger than I am. To have followers and potential readers. And I knew that I want to publish and sell my book…but somehow I was scared to reach out to ask. I didn’t (and don’t) want to impose. I didn’t (and don’t) want to make people uncomfortable. I didn’t (and don’t) want to make it seem like I was all about me. Even though, in many ways, my book is all about me – it’s a memoir after all – I like to think that it’s not, and I’m not, only all about me.
So I was walking into town, wondering if I should email and ask or if I should wait (or if I should wait indefinitely) – and a yellow bird flew right in front of me. Right across my path. I smiled. I whooped inside. And I decided that the universe was telling me to go ahead and to keep going ahead.
Those yellow birds. I feel lucky when I see them. I feel blessed. I feel not alone and I feel as if the world is mine for the picking. Because it is I guess – the world is mine for the picking. It’s all a frame of mind. I can choose to see the yellow birds as yellow birds, or I can choose to see them as beautiful signs from the universe that All is Well. And that’s my choice. I love my beautiful yellow birds.