A Birds' Eye View

As winter shuffles along, the days close in on us. In particular, the Snow Globe sits in a valley often shrouded by cold air trapped in a dreaded "inversion." The brilliant blue sky does little to brighten us because glimpses of it are elusive. A repetitive fog is thick morning and evening, and lingers stubbornly through the day. In my home-sweet-daycare filled all day with my littles, I don't usually find it to be a somber time. I enjoy bundling them in a rainbow of mittens and beanies to play briefly outside, warming their tummies with alphabet soup, reading snowman stories squished together on the couch. But some days I feel subdued. Like a very little voice in a noisy, closed space. Because even on inversion days the littles aren't still or quiet for long. They light up like sparklers, flying in all directions. Some days I struggle to make myself heard above the sizzle as I shield my eyes from the sparks.

This morning the playroom carpet cowered under the debris of items selected and discarded in the creation of their grand display. A paper on the art table was covered entirely in puddles of purple, the hand bells were being chimed without ceasing while voices disagreed in the loft and the dishes in the play kitchen clattered. The only person who seemed put on edge by the clutter and discordance was me.

I opened the back door and stood in the doorway, lifting my eyes to the upper branches of the big old tree in my neighbor's yard. Gray branches against the gray sky through the gray fog. The chill was a relief to my flushed cheeks and I breathed deeply letting the noise drift out around me and dissipate in the misty air. Movement drew my eyes to the gathering of birds resting companionably at the tip of the tree. They were graceful silhouettes, one occasionally fluttering away, another arriving momentarily. They settled their wings with a leisurely ruffle, stretched their necks toward the heavens, sat still for long moments like birds in a painting. The whole scene seemed entirely purposeful and natural.

And it was blissfully quiet from below, though truth be told birds are not long quiet, so in reality they were likely squawking away up there in an echo of the clamor from inside. I turned back to the playroom and peered with my bird-watching eyes at the busy littles. The hand bells still chimed, but I heard the notes being repeated in an experimental song. There was debate in the loft, but the voices alternated in a give and take of talking and listening. The dishes in the play kitchen were lined up for a birthday party, imaginary candles lighting happy faces. Everything looked entirely purposeful and natural. As I stood there a dripping purple paper was pressed into my hands. "It's for you," said a proud voice, "do you want to hang it up?" I looked down and saw a field of lavender on an early summer day. I guess I just needed a birds' eye view.