Time for me

It's what we do the least and what we need the most: "me time."

Time for calming the frothy sea of appointments, spilled coffee, homework, weeds, Pilates, veggie burgers, email, performance reviews and on and on and on. Feel free to fill in the blanks with the speciifics of your life.

Yet there's nothing - No Thing - that brings us back to ourselves quite like: Spending Time With Me."

It's not indulgence in the sense of snuggling in with a good book or shopping for the perfect earrings.

It's breathing in yourself. The precious air that fills your lungs--those weird twin sacs. The exchange of oxygen for carbon dioxide that feeds your blood, which feeds your body, which keeps you alive moment by moment.

So what feeds your soul? What keeps your soul vibrant, moment by moment?

Your soul demands nothing more than your full attention. And yet, will survive even under the most withering neglect. You can't kill it. YOU are still in there, rich and burnished like polished wood.

You can ignore the stirrings of your soul, push them away, cover them up with hurry-hurry-hurry, gotta-finish, fall into bed for another round of chaos.

Or you can take time for yourself.

You choose.

Flight

I heard the tapping first, as soft and quick as raindrops against my windows. Then I noticed the lower undertone, a frantic hum. And the frightened cries of a hummingbird, panicked beyond hummingbird imagination.

The little fellow had trapped himself in my garage. I had no idea how long he'd been beating his hard shell beak against the double-paned glass, wings a-whir. His squeaks of frustration must have gone unnoticed; there was no hummingbird contingent on the other side of the window, urging him on, to try harder to break free.

And freedom seemed so near. There it was, just outside the transparent barrier. Again and again, the tiny bird pelted himself at the glass, determined to fly off into the summer sky.

It was heartbreaking, if not glass-breaking.

The little guy didn't seem to grasp that the garage door was open, a giant invitation to freedom. I suspected that he had been locked inside for several hours, flown around and around and finally settled on the window as his most likely exit strategy. Apparently hummingbird minds are not easily dissuaded. He needed a little help.

The logical solution was to pull down the top window frame. removing the glass obstacle and allowing the tiny bird to finally succeed at flying straight out the window. But I only managed to increase the little bird's anxiety; the top frame was painted shut.

I thought briefly about trapping the little guy, but I didn't want to harm those delicate wings. I finally managed to wrench open the bottom tilt-out window. But the bird stubbornly maintained his vigilance at the top window, peck-peck-pecking, squeaking his terror.

In desperation, I grabbed a lightweight broom. Gently, slowly, I guided the terrified bird lower and lower toward the open window. The little bird fought back, tried to hold his position. I was suddenly afraid I would injure his fragile body even with the broom's soft bristles. He fluttered lower, then abruptly turned, noticed the broad opening of the garage door and was gone.

Smiling, I pushed the tilt-out window back into place and locked it.

It was such a metaphor for my own yearning, my insistent push toward freedom. It's right there. I can see it, beckoning, taunting me. And, like my little hummingbird friend, I peck ineffectively against the Big Barrier.

Perhaps it's time to stop beating my head against the glass and turn around. Wow. That other door is wide open. Excuse me while I fly.