Birdsong and Other Blessings

The last fourteen months or so have been fairly turbulent for me, and lately I've taken a few days off to quiet a mind in which thoughts and feelings were whirling like a stirred-up snow globe.

I was thinking last night about the myth of Pandora's Box, and how the ancients saw the world's evils and hope as bundled together. But it's only natural, after all, when you think about it. I've heard that harmful plants like nettles and plants that heal that particular harm are often found growing in the same area.

Hope. It's an interesting thing, hope. I once did a story about a therapeutic high school in Montana. When you met the kids there, they seemed fine: happy, smart, rich. But that was an illusion, a mask they could put on briefly for strangers. In reality they were one step away from an institution, and it would become apparent in lots of different ways, and it wrung your heart.

The tension of all that misery was something I could use in the story to get the reader's attention. But how to resolve the tension? The solution came in the office of the psychiatrist who was one of the school's founders. He had photos pinned to his desk, photos of kids who had gone on to have successsful, happy lives, and sent him letters with pictures in them so he would know and be glad. It allowed me to join the beginning and the end of the article: I began with kids who only seemed smart, rich, and happy, but I ended with the kids who had graduated, in every sense, and finally had become what they once only seemed. The story was a success itself; a number of people told me they'd cried reading it, and one commenter pointed out particularly that it had hope in it.

So here I am, in a bit of a trough, a bit of a valley myself. But hoping, more than I've done in years when things were more or less stable but I had no idea what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I know now: I want to do the same thing I've always done, just more and better all the time—I want to help other people feel hopeful. I honestly can't think of a better thing to do with my time. I know people are losing their jobs and their cars and their houses. Aid workers are being ejected from Darfur. There's a lot wrong with the world, a lot wrong with my own life, a lot wrong all the time.

But the planet sails with stately grace toward its rendezvous with the equinox; winter ends in a matter of days. The birds are singing, and the music is sweet. I actually think it's a little sweeter because I don't have everything I might wish for. Like Emily Dickinson's thing with feathers, the singing birds ask not a crumb of me. All I have to do is notice, and stop, and listen.

I've got a roof, and food, and my health. And despite the dark, whispering forest of doubts through which most creative people pick their hesitant way, I've got reason to suspect that I have a modicum of talent. So I'm going to keep on striving to be my best self, keep on pointing out the singing birds, the brittle delicacy of bare tree branches against the thin light of a winter evening, all the stuff I find interesting and beautiful. So many things to love! The utterly charming sweetness of Shirley MacLaine's expression at the end of The Apartment when she tells Jack Lemmon to shut up and deal. And the way the art director arranged for there to be a color change in the wall that made a direct line between the two soon-to-be-lovers' eyes. So many things! Snowdrops blooming, and the Waldstein Sonata! I tell you, once you start noticing the wonderful things in life, it becomes a habit and you can't stop.

The photographer, writer, and painter Jacques-Henri Lartigue once said, "I'm not a photographer, writer, or painter: I'm a packager of things that life offers me in passing." That's pretty much how I feel. The events of the past year or so have got me more down than usual, but by God I am by no means out, folks. I'm getting up, dusting myself off, and ready to start the packaging process with a renewed focus and commitment. Have you been down too? I'm sorry to hear it. But being down can sometimes help you figure out what's important, the way you grab certain things and not others when running out of your burning house.

I've got a cat sitting next to me who might have died but didn't. I've got a cup of coffee ready that I made just the way I like. My purse is light? Could be, but so is my conscience. Birds are singing. A little down. By no means out. That's just the deal, with life. And now I need to get back to work, if you'll excuse me. I have a lot of things to package, and the day is already well begun.