Freedom

I heard the tapping first, as soft and quick as raindrops against my windows. Then I noticed the lower undertone, a frantic hum. And the frightened cries of a hummingbird, panicked beyond hummingbird imagination.

The little fellow had trapped himself in my garage. I had no idea how long he'd been beating his hard shell beak against the double-paned glass, wings a-whir. His squeaks of frustration must have gone unnoticed; there was no hummingbird contingent on the other side of the window, urging him on, to try harder to break free.

And freedom seemed so near. There it was, just outside the transparent barrier. Again and again, the tiny bird pelted himself at the glass, determined to fly off into the summer sky.

It was heartbreaking, if not glass-breaking.

The little guy didn't seem to grasp that the garage door was open, a giant invitation to freedom. I suspected that he had been locked inside for several hours, flown around and around and finally settled on the window as his most likely exit strategy. Apparently hummingbird minds are not easily dissuaded. He needed a little help.

The logical solution was to pull down the top window frame. removing the glass obstacle and allowing the tiny bird to finally succeed at flying straight out the window. But I only managed to increase the little bird's anxiety; the top frame was painted shut.

I thought briefly about trapping the little guy, but I didn't want to harm those delicate wings. I finally managed to wrench open the bottom tilt-out window. But the bird stubbornly maintained his vigilance at the top window, peck-peck-pecking, squeaking his terror.

In desperation, I grabbed a lightweight broom. Gently, slowly, I guided the terrified bird lower and lower toward the open window. The little bird fought back, tried to hold his position. I was suddenly afraid I would injure his fragile body even with the broom's soft bristles. He fluttered lower, then abruptly turned, noticed the broad opening of the garage door and was gone.

Smiling, I pushed the tilt-out window back into place and locked it.

It was such a metaphor for my own yearning, my insistent push toward freedom. It's right there. I can see it, beckoning, taunting me. And, like my little hummingbird friend, I peck ineffectively against the Big Barrier.

Perhaps it's time to stop beating my head against the glass and turn around. Wow. That other door is wide open. Excuse me while I fly.

Overdoing abundance

In my less enlightened days, when I found something I loved, (a well-fitting T-shirt, for instance), I'd sometimes buy five at a time (well, at least two). Just in case one wore out, got a stain or broke, I'd still have plenty to get me through. It was silly, wasteful, and fell headlong into that ugly vat labeled "conspicuous consumption," but it made me feel a-b-u-n-d-a-n-t. I had a cushion; I was protected from loss. I had MORE THAN ENOUGH.

What I came to realize is that having too much of something diminishes its value. Even when I value it highly.

My husband and I built a house together about a dozen years ago, a new foundation for our new marriage. To celebrate moving in, we bought our first (and only) bottle of $100 DomPerignon champagne.

I like champagne. The gentle bubbles tickle my nose and the first few sips bite my tongue. But I'm no expert; I couldn't tell the difference between the DomPerignon and grocery store sparkling wine. I saved the empty Dom bottle, though, a momento of our shared excitement. Even now, remembering makes me smile.

If I'd bought five bottles of Dom (assuming I could afford them), I doubt the experience would be so sweet.

I've learned that quality really does have a leg up on quantity. These days I am better at savoring my life, drinking it in small DomPerignon sips, letting the flavor linger and tantalize. Conversations with friends, hanging out the sheets in the summer heat, even cleaning up after my accident-prone Sheltie: those tiny moments point me to to inevitable conclusion: that I live in expansive abundance. Poignant abundance. Grateful abundance.

I never did need those "back-up" supplies. It was a pinprick of fear in my head that said: there might not be enough for YOU. They call that a scarcity mentality. And there are only two choices in life: to live from fear or to live from love.

I'll be drawing loving hearts on my scarcity mentality, thank you very much (do you suppose it will be scared away?). I buy one T-shirt at a time. Then I lay in a (moderate) supply of stain remover.