by Jill MacGregor
Outside my window is a very tall pine tree. It’s full of new growth, thin spindly long branches that grow up and out. Fat little birds will perch on the very end of these branches, relaxed as the skinny branch curves and bows under their weight into an upside down C. How do they understand the pliability of the branch? How do they hang onto the branch (without getting a cramp) and maintain their balance? How do they know how far to go without it snapping? They sit there, playing chicken with the topmost branch and I wonder how it doesn’t spa-roing! back and catapult them through the air. Those little birds know if they lose their footing they can simply flap, flap, flap to another branch and start the whole branch bending experiment (my point of view) over again.
Even a fat, little bird understands there’s a Plan B. But more importantly, those birds understand that branches were made to bend under them, just as they were made to hang on.
I stare at this tree often and watch these birds push the laws of physics on the skinniest ends of the branches. I long to see one of them push it a bit too far only to get whipped back in the other direction, flying against its will.
Never happens.
But stop for a minute. What if all those things we perceive as dangers are the normally pliable parts of life that move around, sometimes feeling unstable, but are always solidly under our feet? What kind of chances would you take then?
Life can sometimes feel like a revolving door of missed opportunities. Perhaps it’s more of a course correction and our way of moving from one branch to another.
Or becoming a strong branch for another—maybe you’re someone’s safe spot to land.
There’s something to be said for believing that you’ll be alright, that if you lose your footing you can always rely on your wings to find a new stable spot in life.
