Friday, September 22, 2006

A Rose by Any Other Name (The Bird Left Behind)

Brian calls me by my middle name. He almost always has, and I love that he still did. It's always been my favorite name, and he knows that.

BJ sometimes calls me by my first name and middle name, or more so, my "pen" name, the first name I gave myself / would have given myself. Or, I'll sign things to him with that name.

I have accepted the name Robin, but I've never really liked it. Oh, I've heard all the jokes. I like saying happy spring. But. I've heard all the come-on lines, and they aren't so original or great, guys, really. There were five girls named Robin in my PE class once. Rockin Robin is at least a fun song at times, but, it never felt like me. I wanted more, different.
Even on gift shop items with photos or images of birds, they're cardinals, or chickadees, both of which I love, admittedly, or hummingbirds. If they're songbirds, they often don't include robins. M has a book of 20 birds in her room -- it doesn't even include a robin.   It's almost as if Robins are too common. I like the herons, the Great Blue Herons.
If M had been a boy, her (his) middle name would have been Heron, well, probably, if not, C after her (his) father. So impressive standing in the blackwaters of Maryland, regal. Regal and elegant.
I chose to keep and raise my child -- my greatest joy and privilege. I am content with most of my lifes choices. And, yet. I do have dreams, thoughts. Who can ever be as fast as the peregrine, few if any. Or soar as high as the eagles that eat the foxes the Chumash once knew.
Brian's voice has mellowed, like a California wine. I know that's his home now, so why was he here, with the bird left behind?
Let's play Picasso, and paint the sky purple, with seagulls and pelicans, a January moon. The sandpipers will chase the waves at our feet, and there will be no floods, no riptides to swallow our children.
Which really needs a lot of work, but these thoughts keep swirling around in my head. orange socks and red ribbons.
I am happy, raising my fledgling, helping her learn what path she shall soar, finding her own Picasso. Like Johnathan Livingston Seagull. The book that Aunt Beth and her husband gave my father decades ago, that I chose from his walls of books, when he and my mother divorced. Not as if I couldn't chose any book now, also, but right then, it seemed more final, more significant. The book I chose for SO one year when he'd lost his job, and was joining us in Chincoteague for a weekend where we were spending a week with friends. He and I are fine, we're friends. But I think of the analogy, a bird wishing to find his self actualization, his ultimate purpose, even as a seagull.
I suppose it's really two main thoughts here I need to separate, the "greater" bird than a robin bird bit, and the whole Brian bit. But, hey, it's my entry, my mixed thoughts:)

We'll play like Picasso and paint the sky purple, with seagulls and pelicans, a January moon. The sandpipers will chase the waves at our feet, no riptides to steal them away. Your voice has mellowed like a California wine. I know that's your home now, I know it, I know it, so why are you here with the bird left behind?

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