We have a pet cockatiel. He is still a young one-- just four months now. We need to keep his wings trimmed since he lives indoors and with all his flight feathers, he could easily startle and get up enough of a head of steam that he could smash himself to smithereens on the window. Lovely thought.
So the unformed fuzzy thought I had was something about wanting to be able to fly-- but not so far and not so fast that we become injured.
And it seems like the kind of thing that I would write about being on meds-- that I can't fly so high or so fast that I smash to smithereens. But here is the thing: I was never flying that high. The lows were the biggest problem. And I don't feel that the meds have clipped my wings.
I was just thinking of how we need to adapt to our environments. To deal with how things are and not how we want them to be or how they ought to be.
After all, my cockatiel aught to be living on the ground somewhere in Australia.
Short, sweet, post.
Quaker, teacher, parent,