The three sparrows
(for everyone who knows what it feels like, to make a thoughtful gamble, and take a leap of faith)
There was once a nest of birds. The occupants of the nest were really quite young, but most certainly old enough that they may take their first step off the branch and join their parents in - what this writer can only imagine would be - the exhiliration of flight.
And then there was this one bird, who was always eager and always so self-assured. And from the first day he hatched from his eggshell he had watched the other birds with envy and pride. That he knew that one day he too, might take to the skies on feathered wings of his own filled him with pride, and that as of yet he had to sit in his nest, naked and vulnerable while the other birds soared about him filled his tiny beating heart with envy.
"Some day," he swore. Headstrong and proud. "Some day, I will grow feathers of my own, and then I will jump out of this nest and fly up there with the other birds."
Still we must look to the other little bird on his left, a small and shrivelled up excuse of a thing, who - from the first day he weakly stuck his beak out of his little eggshell - was very much afraid of the prospect of leaping from so high a branch. He saw the other birds flying, his parents' encouraging him with chirps, but his heart was still with fear.
"For what if I fall!" He thought with a shiver. "Surely my wings aren't quite strong enough!"
But his parents encouraged him and still he could not bring himself to even open his wings.
"Flap! Flap!" his mother urged in her soft, sweet chirp.
"Yes! You must flap them!" Said his father, encouragingly.
But still his wings stayed folded by his sides. Tighter, surely than if someone had glued them first in place for sure.
And yet, the story still cannot move on, for there was still one more bird, and if there were indeed any word that could describe him, it would be "middle". For take just one look at him and you would see that he was the sort of bird that came out the "middle" in everything.
I suppose I should start by telling you that he was, to begin all things; a middle child.
He was not exceptionally big and gruff, like his father. Nor was he petite and exquisitely beautiful like his mother. He was just in the middle.
As for personality, he placed himself somewhere in between the boldness of his older brother, and the timidness of his younger.
And he thought to himself "flying, is about trust. And that is something I should think about."
And so came the day for the three birds to take off. "Don't fly too far!" said the mother bird in her sweet chirrup.
"And remember to only fly the way we thought you!" said the father bird in his stern-practical way.
The oldest bird, the most headstrong and confident of the three leapt off without notice. "Here I come!" he said in the loudest song you could possibly imagine. All the other birds turned and looked at the young bird as he flew and flew around the tree.
"That's quite enough!" said the mother bird, sweet but worried.
"Come back now!" said the father bird, anxious and stern.
But the bird was too full of joy and himself. And he flew and he flew. The other birds had begun to stare, the younger ones with admiration, the older ones reprimanding, which only served to fill him with even more pride and he thought to himself, if he could not invent a flying stunt that would crown him forever as the legendary flier of the tree.
And he swooped and he soared, and eventually, when he had obtained enough momentum, he began to perform a most beautiful and breathtaking loop through the air. His feathers swayed, borne on the wind. "I trust the air!" He said.
And beautiful it would have been, except that he did not quite notice a sudden wayward breeze. And all of a sudden the bird lost control of his flight! "Mother!" he cried. "Father! please help me!" as he plummeted to the ground. Down. Down. Down until....splat! And that was the end of the older bird. 30 seconds was all it took.
The mother and father bird shook their heads sadly, but otherwise did nothing, for this was most certainly not their first nest, and this was certainly not the first of their young to perish in such a foolhardy manner.
"Go on then," the mother bird said coaxingly to the other two birds. "Fly off now."
"And do be careful!" the father bird added.
But the youngest bird was scared to the spot. "I-I-I can't!" he stammered, for he was very much shaken by his brother's death. "What if I crash? What if I fall? What if I die? What if my wings aren't strong?" So many questions he had to ask, offered like a shield that would protect him.
"You will never know if you do not try," the mother bird tried again, coaxingly.
"No...I can't!" he cried.
"Very well then," she said with a sigh. "And how about you?" this to the "middle" bird.
He simply nodded. He could feel the wind on his tail, carressing him, inviting him. A terribly partner, the wind, and yet called to him so seductively. "It's only natural to want to jump into the wind," thought the middle bird. "It's a part of our nature as birds!"
And yet, there didn't seem to be any reason for him to jump in headfirst either. Instead, he spread his wings. The wind blew against the contours of his feathers, providing him the gentle feeling of the lift that would surely follow when he took his first leap of faith.
And he stood there, for what must be hours, waiting and contemplating. Thinking. The father bird and the mother bird did not rush him. Instead, they stood, flanking his poor timid younger sibling and watched on in silent anticipation. He was clearly taking his time, testing the waters. But of course that would not mean that he would be entirely safe.
Anything, you see, is possibly.
And then suddenly he felt it. The right sort of wind. The right sort of lift. And he jumped. And he flew, higher and higher in to the sky and he knew the meaning of life, and he knew that he had fullfilled the most basic destiny of all birds. The destiny of flight.
For all creatures in the world have their own individual destinies. Yet, some destinies are so strong that they bind entire species together as one. A basic feeling, a primal instict, something so inherent to us that it is almost hardwired into our DNA.
Having fullfilled his destiny, the younger bird lived the rest of his life in happiness. But of course he had his problems, and of course there were times when life had him down, still, he was always comforted and calmed by the knowledge that he had lived for something greater than his own, that he had taken a thoughtful gamble, fallen in wind, and thrived.
But what happened to the youngest bird you ask? Well, I suppose he sat in his nest for the rest of his life, too timid and afraid to ever take the jump. And there he stayed, long after his parents had left to start a new nest in another tree, there he shivered in the cold after all the birds had migrated in winter, and there he had stayed until the day he died.
PEACE OUT
(for everyone who knows what it feels like, to make a thoughtful gamble, and take a leap of faith)
There was once a nest of birds. The occupants of the nest were really quite young, but most certainly old enough that they may take their first step off the branch and join their parents in - what this writer can only imagine would be - the exhiliration of flight.
And then there was this one bird, who was always eager and always so self-assured. And from the first day he hatched from his eggshell he had watched the other birds with envy and pride. That he knew that one day he too, might take to the skies on feathered wings of his own filled him with pride, and that as of yet he had to sit in his nest, naked and vulnerable while the other birds soared about him filled his tiny beating heart with envy.
"Some day," he swore. Headstrong and proud. "Some day, I will grow feathers of my own, and then I will jump out of this nest and fly up there with the other birds."
Still we must look to the other little bird on his left, a small and shrivelled up excuse of a thing, who - from the first day he weakly stuck his beak out of his little eggshell - was very much afraid of the prospect of leaping from so high a branch. He saw the other birds flying, his parents' encouraging him with chirps, but his heart was still with fear.
"For what if I fall!" He thought with a shiver. "Surely my wings aren't quite strong enough!"
But his parents encouraged him and still he could not bring himself to even open his wings.
"Flap! Flap!" his mother urged in her soft, sweet chirp.
"Yes! You must flap them!" Said his father, encouragingly.
But still his wings stayed folded by his sides. Tighter, surely than if someone had glued them first in place for sure.
And yet, the story still cannot move on, for there was still one more bird, and if there were indeed any word that could describe him, it would be "middle". For take just one look at him and you would see that he was the sort of bird that came out the "middle" in everything.
I suppose I should start by telling you that he was, to begin all things; a middle child.
He was not exceptionally big and gruff, like his father. Nor was he petite and exquisitely beautiful like his mother. He was just in the middle.
As for personality, he placed himself somewhere in between the boldness of his older brother, and the timidness of his younger.
And he thought to himself "flying, is about trust. And that is something I should think about."
And so came the day for the three birds to take off. "Don't fly too far!" said the mother bird in her sweet chirrup.
"And remember to only fly the way we thought you!" said the father bird in his stern-practical way.
The oldest bird, the most headstrong and confident of the three leapt off without notice. "Here I come!" he said in the loudest song you could possibly imagine. All the other birds turned and looked at the young bird as he flew and flew around the tree.
"That's quite enough!" said the mother bird, sweet but worried.
"Come back now!" said the father bird, anxious and stern.
But the bird was too full of joy and himself. And he flew and he flew. The other birds had begun to stare, the younger ones with admiration, the older ones reprimanding, which only served to fill him with even more pride and he thought to himself, if he could not invent a flying stunt that would crown him forever as the legendary flier of the tree.
And he swooped and he soared, and eventually, when he had obtained enough momentum, he began to perform a most beautiful and breathtaking loop through the air. His feathers swayed, borne on the wind. "I trust the air!" He said.
And beautiful it would have been, except that he did not quite notice a sudden wayward breeze. And all of a sudden the bird lost control of his flight! "Mother!" he cried. "Father! please help me!" as he plummeted to the ground. Down. Down. Down until....splat! And that was the end of the older bird. 30 seconds was all it took.
The mother and father bird shook their heads sadly, but otherwise did nothing, for this was most certainly not their first nest, and this was certainly not the first of their young to perish in such a foolhardy manner.
"Go on then," the mother bird said coaxingly to the other two birds. "Fly off now."
"And do be careful!" the father bird added.
But the youngest bird was scared to the spot. "I-I-I can't!" he stammered, for he was very much shaken by his brother's death. "What if I crash? What if I fall? What if I die? What if my wings aren't strong?" So many questions he had to ask, offered like a shield that would protect him.
"You will never know if you do not try," the mother bird tried again, coaxingly.
"No...I can't!" he cried.
"Very well then," she said with a sigh. "And how about you?" this to the "middle" bird.
He simply nodded. He could feel the wind on his tail, carressing him, inviting him. A terribly partner, the wind, and yet called to him so seductively. "It's only natural to want to jump into the wind," thought the middle bird. "It's a part of our nature as birds!"
And yet, there didn't seem to be any reason for him to jump in headfirst either. Instead, he spread his wings. The wind blew against the contours of his feathers, providing him the gentle feeling of the lift that would surely follow when he took his first leap of faith.
And he stood there, for what must be hours, waiting and contemplating. Thinking. The father bird and the mother bird did not rush him. Instead, they stood, flanking his poor timid younger sibling and watched on in silent anticipation. He was clearly taking his time, testing the waters. But of course that would not mean that he would be entirely safe.
Anything, you see, is possibly.
And then suddenly he felt it. The right sort of wind. The right sort of lift. And he jumped. And he flew, higher and higher in to the sky and he knew the meaning of life, and he knew that he had fullfilled the most basic destiny of all birds. The destiny of flight.
For all creatures in the world have their own individual destinies. Yet, some destinies are so strong that they bind entire species together as one. A basic feeling, a primal instict, something so inherent to us that it is almost hardwired into our DNA.
Having fullfilled his destiny, the younger bird lived the rest of his life in happiness. But of course he had his problems, and of course there were times when life had him down, still, he was always comforted and calmed by the knowledge that he had lived for something greater than his own, that he had taken a thoughtful gamble, fallen in wind, and thrived.
But what happened to the youngest bird you ask? Well, I suppose he sat in his nest for the rest of his life, too timid and afraid to ever take the jump. And there he stayed, long after his parents had left to start a new nest in another tree, there he shivered in the cold after all the birds had migrated in winter, and there he had stayed until the day he died.
PEACE OUT
