Sunday, March 10, 2013

Can You Come Out and Play?

Yesterday morning as I was sitting quietly with a cat on my lap and sipping a cup of coffee there was a “caw, caw, caw, caw, caw, caw!” outside the living room window.  I’m still adjusting to the sounds around my new home and have grown accustomed to the chirps, peeps, and tapping of the cardinals, sparrows, and woodpecker in the neighborhood.  But here was a crow come a’callin.  As I listened, it repeated the same pattern and it sounded to me as though it was saying, “Can you come out and play?”
Setting Millie aside, I got up and looked out the window.  It gave one of its repetitions and glanced around, it seemed to me, with hope.  Then it turned and faced the other way, cawed, and surveyed the tree and sky, seeking a caw in return or the sight of a relative in flight.
As it waited it started to groom itself, beak to wing, as though signaling to any and all watching, “It’s cool.  I’m fine.”  This reminded me of when Millie goes to jump on something, misses, and begins washing her face in a “that’s-what-I-meant-to-do” fashion.  After two minutes of grooming and surreptitious glances, the crow flew away. 

We’re not so different from the animal kingdom, brushing off our embarrassment, covering up our longing for companionship and connection, and taking flight when seemingly rebuffed.  Our patterns are developed early on. Perhaps growing up you lived in a busy household where privacy was a premium.  Or maybe you’re like me.  Solitude was the familiar and a ‘can you come out and play’ was a welcome invitation.  Some days I would think who I could go ask, but there weren’t a lot of kids around and back then I was shy about reaching out to my peers.
Reflecting on the crow made me realize that maybe it’s time to rethink the ‘can you come out and play?’ patterns in our lives.  If you’re sitting waiting for a call or email, send out your own “caw, caw?”  If you’ve already “cawed” and are on the branch, head under wing waiting, go “caw” elsewhere.  Let’s all spread our wings a little and fly differently this week.  Maybe we’ll find a new flock.

Marilyn

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