I had just started admitting…or even complaining. There seem to be no yellow birds this year. I sit in my quiet time every morning, on my side porch, waiting – looking – for my yellow birds. Nothing. I drive through the streets, fully aware of where I’ve seen them before. Nothing. I walk past the purple bush outside my yoga studio, remembering the morning that three yellow birds were waiting for me there. Nothing.
I found myself interpreting their absence as something bad. When I see my yellow birds I feel graced by the universe. Remembered by the love that (I believe) exists within and around us all. Validated for how in tune, in touch, and in alignment with my best self I am. And therefore when I don’t see them, does it mean I’m not graced? When they don’t fly past me, does it mean I’m not remembered? Does it mean that I’m out of tune, out of touch, and out of alignment with my best self? Or is this my stinking thinking playing tricks on me, and it only means that, for some reason, my yellow birds may not have nested in Wayne this year. That it’s got nothing to do with me and is no reflection of my worth. Or how “well” I’m doing.
I recognize and reframe my stinking thinking, and come to terms with the fact that I may not see my beautiful yellow birds this year. I confess to my daughter how much I miss them. “I can be your yellow bird,” she says. “I’m your big, big, not very yellow yellow bird.”
I smile, as always, and plant a kiss on her, and decide to see my yellow birds in my mind’s eye whenever I want to and can. And in my daughter. I accept that this year is a year without actual yellow birds. At least not yet.
And then yesterday, as I picked my son and his friend up from camp, a yellow bird dive-bombed my car. A bright yellow, gorgeous yellow bird.
I didn’t imagine it. I heard my son’s friend from the back seat. “Wow,” he said. “Was that a bird? It was amazing.”
It was amazing.
It was amazing. It was my yellow bird.
I have come to remember that not seeing my yellow birds doesn’t mean that something’s off in me, or in life, or in the world. It just means that I didn’t see any yellow birds.
And I’ve come to remember that I can appreciate the “yellow birds” I have – the ones in my memory, and, of course, my big, big not very yellow bird who is home for the summer.
I love when I remember this – and then a yellow bird dive-bombs my car.
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