TangledWings

Gone Trick-or-Treating

Hope your Halloween has been filled with cute goblins, adorable ghouls, plenty of blue Power Rangers, and lots of chocolate of course.  Happy Haunting.

SPC {what I wear 1}

I'm really excited about this month's Self Portrait Challenge theme.  So excited I'm starting a week early.  What I wear.  I think what we wear, or what we don't wear, can reveal a lot about who we are...or who we want to be.  We often choose our clothing based on how we feel or how we want to feel.  It can be an expression of our personality or an indication of where we happen to be in our lives at the present moment.  And I can't help but also link what we wear to style.  Although I don't think I've owned a certain style for myself there are many people who have.  There are people who have taken a certain look and made it so theirs that you can't help but think of that person when you think of the style.  Think Frida Kahlo and her Tehuana dress.  Can you imagine her in anything else?  Think Coco Chanel and her string of pearls.  Think Diane Keaton and the way she took menswear and made it feminine.  Think Stevie Nicks and her free flowing bewitching gowns and capes.  Think Audrey Hepburn and those adorable cropped pants paired with cute slippers.  Think Bono and his sunglasses.  Think Elvis and his big collared sequin suits.  Think about the way Carey Grant could wear a tuxedo like no one else.  Think Charlie Chaplain with his mustache and bowler hat.  Think Johnny Depp and that bohemian 'hobo chic' he pulls off so well.  And I'm sure you could list hundreds of others whose 'look' has become synonymous with the person.  What we choose to wear can reveal little things about ourselves that maybe we only feel safe expressing through something we can easily remove.  So I think this ought to be an interesting month and I can't wait to see what some of you come up with.

I'm one of those people who wish they had a 'look'.  I kinda just feel thrown together most of the time.  I don't consider myself stylish in the least.  The images above are just about the way I feel about my wardrobe.  A bit frumpy.  Now there is something to be said for comfort and many weekends you will catch me just as you see me above--pajama pants (or comfy pants as we call them in our home), a t-shirt, hair thrown up, and not a stitch of make-up.  Very au naturale.  But I would be lying if I said I didn't have this little piece inside of me longing to be a bit more stylish.  And I don't mean that in a fad/trend kind of way.  I mean I wish I knew how to better express who I am on the inside through what I wear on the outside.  A fad/trend is a passing fancy.  Style is something you own that may even be unique to you.  It doesn't have to be what everyone else is wearing.  It has to be something that really lets you come alive.  Sometimes I get really bored with the 'I bought this because it was on sale' look instead of the 'I bought this because it's really ME' look and I long for a look I feel I really own instead of one that owns me.  Our clothing can shift the way we feel about ourselves and can sometimes even instill a sense of empowerment.  Often when my look owns me, instead of the other way around, I don't feel a strong sense of empowerment.  Now I'm not saying empowerment comes from what we wear.  I'm saying that when we own our look it is often a good indicator that we do feel grounded and empowered and confident.  It could mean we have a strong sense of self...strong enough that we let ourselves explore who we are through what we wear.  It's the inside manifesting itself on the outside.  I'm okay with pajama pants and no make-up on the weekends...and sometimes during the week...and I am wearing a Wonder Woman t-shirt afterall...that's gotta say something for me.  But I also want everything that's stuffed inside--my creativity, my passion, my power, my heart, my unfolding and becoming--to be seen on the outside.  Choosing to dress in a way that expresses all that is trapped inside is one way to accomplish getting the inside outside.

Monday Mosaic and How I Spent My Weekend...which isn't all that interesting but oh well

• watched Arthur and the Invisibles at least 4 times with a sick child in my lap
• cleaned 3 nose bleeds...because that happens when he's sick
• washed 5 loads of laundry
• had a little helper assist me with sorting and matching socks, we were even able to find the missing half of many stragglers
• actually created in my art journal...a first in months
• pulled out the paint for the B-Dog...and then cleaned it all up...well, most of it...it's all still sitting on the kitchen table
• took a walk both Saturday and Sunday observing how beautiful the trees are and discovering if you stand under the yellowing leaves as the sun is setting it's like standing under a sky of gold
• a picnic at the park as a reward for good behavior at school
• chased a 4 year old around the playground only to discover he is much quicker than I...not to mention he has tons more energy...all this while he's supposed to be sick
• watched the movie Hoax with T...it was okay...interesting...not fabulous
• managed to dress myself Saturday but I don't think I ever managed to brush my hair
• took a nice Saturday afternoon nap
• spent hours cleaning and organizing the spare bedroom...and boy did it need it
• ignored the fact the bathroom is in desperate need of cleaning in favor of reading several chapters of Eat, Pray, Love which I've decided to read a second time after seeing Elizabeth Gilbert on Oprah
• purchased groceries to last until November 1 on under $9 because I'm that broke
• listened to the Foo Fighter's Skin and Bones...hmmm....at least once per day
• watched T clean most of the house...and felt guilty for only cleaning the spare bedroom...but it did need it...desperately
• enjoyed T's fabulous pasta...because I don't really cook much
• sat in my car at the park in the dark and journaled...yes, it's hard to see but I kind of like that about it
• finished editing the photos from this years family reunion...which was Labor Day weekend
• made several new banners for my blog until I finally had one that was okay...not completely happy with the size but I'm letting that go
• burned 2 dvd's full of images off my computer because my disk space was getting low
• realized there were about a dozen other things I needed to get done over the weekend that I just didn't get around to
• decided to let that go too...

Sunday Scribblings {hospitals}

I.

I worked as a chaplain at a hospital for two years.  That seems like an eternity ago.  I sat next to bedsides and listened to patients spill their stories.  I was present as mothers held their newborns for both the first and the last time.  I tried to be a grounded presence as families walked with their loved ones through the dying process.  And I learned that many times the only answer you can give to the question why is I don't know.  I've forgotten most of the faces and names.  I was there for some of the most intensely emotional moments in a family's life and while I can piece together some of the stories I can't really remember the specifics.  I can't remember the people whose experiences intersected with mine changing the direction of my life.  But I do remember one.  For some reason I can't erase her from my mind.  Her name was Mrs. May.  Everyday she was at her son's bedside.  He was in his late 40s-early 50s.  Years before he had been in an accident involving his horse.  I don't remember if he fell or if he was trampled but I do remember the accident left him brain damaged.  He had spent the years following the accident in and out of the hospital over and over again.  And every time his mother was there to sit by his side, a loving, familiar presence in a life torn apart.  I would stop by to visit everyday just to be a face, a smile, someone to lend a listening ear and offer a quick hug.  She shared stories about the man her son used to be.  Young, handsome, witty, active, full of life.  She shared stories about everything he'd lost.  His ability to function, his health, his home, his wife, his life.  The only thing that remained the same was the fact that he was her son and would always be her son.  She had memories of who he used to be as a child, a teen, a young adult.  Now the memories she was making consisted of holding his hand, keeping his lips and skin moisturized, wiping the drool from his chin, bathing his limp body, moving his limps to maintain some muscle tone, and rotating his position in an attempt to ward off bed sores.  She never asked for this.  Never dreamed of it.  Never even considered that it might happen to her beautiful child.  I'm sure she'd do anything she could to change that one moment that changed it all.  But she was powerless to undo the past--she couldn't save him or trade places with him.  The only thing she could do was show up everyday.  The only thing she could do was be his mother, the one person to remember that once there was more than this, the one person to hold all the stories of who this man was and may still be somewhere deep inside.  I admired her.  I admired her not necessarily for her strength or her selflessness or her dedication, I admired her because even though the man lying in that bed in no way, shape, or form resembled the son she once knew she never stopped being his mother.  She never doubted that her son's life still held worth even if others couldn't see that.  She never stopped doing the things a woman does just because she's someone's mother.  It was heartbreaking.  It was.  But it was also evidence of how big love can be.

II.

We can create for ourselves places inside to hide when life pummels us, places to lay our beaten bodies, places with sterile white walls and starched white sheets, places we can bring everything that's bruised and bleeding and leave them in the operating room of life, a sort of hospital for the soul.  We can spread out all our broken pieces, sort through them, name them, line them up according to the amount of pain we feel.  We can bind the things that are fractured, stitch the things splitting open, bandage the gashes crying out for attention.  But the only ones who come out alive, the only ones who make it, are those brave enough to open their hearts to the healing touch of another.  Only those brave enough to let someone else's eyes exam their bruised life make it out whole.  Those who let others see them weak, fragile, bleeding, and raw, those willing to be there, naked and wounded, and not reach for a robe to cover the scars but instead lie perfectly still and place their very lives in someone else's care, are the ones most likely to recover from the tragedy of existence.  And if you are brave enough to do this, if you can find that little piece of courage in the fear,  not because you cannot learn how to bind your own throbbing wounds but because you know we are all here to relate and we will never fully heal until we learn to heal and be healed, then you are stronger than you think.  We are all wounded healers here to commune in the corridors of the broken and wounded, here to let each other enter the whole of who we are in order to find that divine power inside which is the only thing that truly heals.   

A Poem for Thursday

The knots around my heart loosen and my love falls around you
like rain that finally slips from the tight grip of the gray clouds above.
What I leave here in the muddy soil of my silence is the forceful pushing
of arms that have forgotten how to embrace, arms that can't remember
what it feels like to hold the soft spiny humanity of another soul.
What I take with me as I turn towards colors that break the sky in two
is a place inside the center of my chest, open and spacious with
no land mines and no barbed wire fences, a place large enough
to hold the resistance of both me and you, wide enough to contain
all the mistakes we've whispered when the other turned away,
deep enough to let forgiveness puddle at our feet and seep into
the ground discovering our roots.  The knots around my heart loosen
and I invite you in, taking your hand as you leave your fear
at the door to be washed by the eager hands of
the afternoon rain.

Dave Grohl Ought to Appreciate this Post

I confess...I'm a Foo Fighters fan.  It all began years ago when I saw Dave Grohl and Taylor Hawkins (both members of the Foo Fighters) induct Queen into the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame.  Because Freddie Mercury is no longer living the two Foo Fighters members performed in his honor.  They performed Queen's Tie Your Mother Down and from that moment on I was sold.  It was passionate and angst-y and sweaty...all the things I love in a good rock 'n' roll song.  A few years later I saw them perform Times Like These at the Grammys and that further deepened my love.  And then there was the time Dave Grohl joined Bruce Springsteen, Steve Van Zant, and Elvis Costello in a performance of London Calling at the Grammys in honor of The Clash.  That sealed it for me and nothing anyone can say can talk me out of my love for them. 

Needless to say it isn't uncommon to hear a little Foo Fighters music playing either at home or in my office.  (side note: when we're at home I like my Foo Fighters mixed in with a little Oasis and Pearl Jam or Counting Crows depending on my mood.) Especially lately.  I recently purchased a copy of their cd Skin and Bones and I swear to you it may be the most fabulous cd ever.  Okay, maybe that's exaggerating it a bit but it is pretty damn good.  I think I've played it non-stop for three weeks.  I fully expect my co-worker to turn against me at any moment and threaten to ban the Foo Fighters from our office forever. (Foo Fighters plug: run to your nearest music store, or log onto Amazon.com, and purchase this cd...do it now...I promise you won't regret it...if you're having doubts watch this...or this.)  Earlier in the week I actually received an e-mail from someone who had read a comment I left on another blog about Skin and Bones and she purchased it and wanted to let me know she loved it.  YES!  Another Foo Fighters convert. 

I've been pushing the Foo Fighters on my co-workers, on T & the B-Dog, on anyone I can.  My brother's birthday is next month and guess what he'll be getting.  If you guessed a copy of Skin and Bones you are correct.  There are times I honest to God believe that because I've spent so much money on Johnny Depp (dvds, soundtracks, figurines, costumes, swords, books, even legos) I ought to be able to call him up at any time and say, "Hey Johnny, you know that island in the Caribbean you own.  Well I helped you purchase a sliver of that island so I'm coming to visit this weekend.  Just throw a sleeping bag out on the beach and I'll be fine."  Well it's getting to the point that I think I ought to be able to call up Dave Grohl any time and say, "Hey I hear you're going to be performing at such-and-such-location.  I'd like a couple tickets thank you very much."  I'm just trying to spread some Foo Fighters love (gotta love You Tube.)

But that's not really what this post is about.  That was just an introduction...a long one but still only an introduction.  This post is actually about a new game the B-Dog has invented that T and I get the pleasure of playing with him.  While sitting around the dinner table last week, and yes, there may have been some Foo Fighters playing in the background, the B-Dog decided we all needed to raise our hands as fast as we could and whoever was the fastest got to call someone a Foo Fighter (somehow that always managed to be him.)  Hands up.  "Mom's a Foo Fighter."  Hands down.  Hands up.  "Dad's a Foo Fighter." Hands down and so on and so forth.  Every once in awhile T or I one got to squeeze in a "Britt's a Foo Fighter."

Little did we know there are apparently several versions of this game.  According to the B-Dog other versions are as follows:

• Foo Fighters 2--can only be played while at the gas station
• Foo Fighters 3--has to be played while at the candy store
• Foo Fighters 4--requires props (like matchbox cars, etc.)
• Foo Fighters 5 (try saying that 10 times in a row as fast as you can...that's what I thought...not so easy is it)--requires you wear a costume
• Foo Fighters 11--can only be played while driving and only by the driver (I know...not very safe)
• Foo Fighters 13--requires multiple costumes and you rotate them
• Foo Fighters 41--can only be played while watching Transformers but seeing as how we don't have Transformers we can't play it
• Foo Fighters 81--must only be played at the grocery store
• Foo Fighters 89--requires you put both hands up in the air instead of just one
• and finally there is my personal favorite, Foo Fighters 99--which you can only play if you have ninety-nine and two thousand seven arms and since monsters are the only ones with ninety-nine and two thousand seven arms they're the only ones who can play it

See how much fun you can have when you live with a 4 year old.  Hey, it beats the heck out of having to chase him around the house with a plastic sword pretending to be either Captain Jack or Captain Barbosa, depending on which one he wants to be.

So let's say we make this post a little more interesting.  For the sake of spreading a little more Foo Fighters love I will personally purchase a copy of Skin and Bones (after I get paid on November 1st of course) to the 1st person that comments on this post and says, "I'd like to have a little Foo Fighters love lavished on me.  Send me a copy."  I will e-mail you for your address and once I get paid (god, that can not come soon enough) I will buy you a copy, along with my brother's, and send it to you.  I promise!  Then you too can be a Foo Fighters convert.  How can you not take me up on this?  I mean it's a free cd...and a damn good one at that.  First person that comments...

Dang...now I'm feeling guilty for not spreading the Johnny Depp love.  I'll have to think about that one and come up with something for next month.  Stay tuned.

SPC {Food-Eat, Pray, Love}

This is kind of along the lines of this month's self portrait challenge theme (food) so I'm going to go with it...

It's been a little over a year since I closed the cover of Elizabeth Gilbert's amazing book Eat, Pray, Love.  Like many other women who've read her book I can say that in small ways this book did change my life.  It's one of those books I learned a great deal from.  It's one of those books that opened my heart to my own life.  It's one of those books that took me forever to get through because I was only ready for it in little bits and pieces.  Like many of you I was excited to see that Ms. Gilbert would be sharing her story on Oprah.  Although the episode aired several weeks ago I was only able to watch it this past Friday.  My best girlfriend tivoed it for the two of us and we made a date of it.  And of course we started our evening off in the very same way Ms. Gilbert began her year long journey into herself--by eating.  You gotta love any place that has a basket full of fortune cookies just begging you to dive into them...and to have as many as you want, not like other oriental food establishments that only give you one per person with the ticket at the end of the meal.  We helped ourselves to a pre-Oprah fortune cookie and a post-Oprah fortune cookie fully believing the messages we received inside our delicious little sugar cookie pockets of hope were the exact messages we were meant to receive...that's what you have to do with fortune cookies.  You have to believe you're getting the one you need for that very moment in time.

I'm not sure exactly how long it took us to watch the full episode of Oprah because we had to pause and rewind and pause and rewind and pause and rewind, a glass of wine in one hand, a pen in the other, and our journals in our laps studiously taking notes of the things Elizabeth said that touched our hearts.  Because it's been so long since I read her book it was nice to get this refresher course.  It was nice to be reminded of the importance of taking our spiritual journey and that it doesn't matter what that journey looks like it's only important that we take it.  We all won't travel to Italy, India, and Indonesia.  That was Elizabeth Gilbert's spiritual journey.  We have to take our own and it won't look like hers...but that doesn't mean God loves us any less than her.  Each of us will begin our journey from the place we are.  For Ms. Gilbert it was her bathroom floor early one November morning.  For me and for you that starting point will be different.  No one's journey is supposed to look the same.  They are supposed to be as unique and individualized as we are.    It doesn't have to be glamorous.  It doesn't have to end up published in a book.  It doesn't have to wind up on Oprah.  It doesn't have to include leaving your spouse.  It just has to be asking and seeking and being open.  It just has to be a journey into the self and a journey into God.

Before heading home for the evening I found myself sitting in my car in the dark at a park a few blocks from my home.  It's hard to absorb all that information and not feel a little emotional about it.  It's hard to do all that reflection and not need time to sit alone in stillness and toss it around a bit...or cry a little if that's what you need to do.  It's hard not to go somewhere alone and hold that hunger for a fuller life in your heart until you think you can go out into the world and live it.  And for me it's hard not to pour it out in words, making sure I get them all down before I loose them to time and activity.  I'm discovering the car is a really great makeshift sanctuary.  If you're needing one you might give it a try. 

At the end of the episode Ms. Gilbert did suggest three daily activities to get you started on your own spiritual journey:

1. keep a journal and every morning ask yourself what you really, really want
2. everyday record your happiest moment of the day
3. refine your mantra because what you're saying to yourself over and over again everyday has power

I begin these three practices even before viewing the Oprah episode.  I read about the suggestions on Oprah's website and was too excited to wait.  I have to say that all three of these practices can really shift your life.  When you sit down in quietness and stillness to ask yourself what you really, really want, when you get past the surface stuff, when you weed through the bullshit, you can discover some interesting things about yourself, some things you may have secretly know but weren't really paying attention too.  If you can get down to that deep place of want and listen to what you're really needing you just might find compassion for yourself and direction for your life.  When you end your day by narrowing in on your happiest moment of the day, even if it's very slight and seems unimportant, do you know what can happen?  You just might discover that damn it, you really are happy, you really have some good things going on in your life.  It makes you start to pay attention to what brings you joy and it helps you see life in a different light.  And when you consciously begin to shift the tape that runs constantly in your head to one of love and encouragement and compassion you just might move into a new place of being, you just might shift entire relationships, you just might begin giving yourself a little more grace.

   

Monday Mosaic and a tag from Mindy

This weekend I finally pulled my camera out of its bag after a week and a half in hibernation.  I haven't taken any pictures since my uncle's funeral and although I don't think I have been associating the lack of use with his death I really haven't felt much like photographing anything.  Plus my creativity right now seems to really want to find it's expression in words so I've put a lot of my energy into writing as opposed to picture taking.  But this weekend I strapped my camera around my neck and went for a two hour walk around the neighborhood (and by the way, alleys are much more interesting to photograph than streets and front yards).  Once home I pulled out the large sketchpad and created a makeshift seamless studio in the kitchen just to get in a little more camera time.  The above mosaic is just a handful of shots captured this weekend.

********************************************************************

I was very pleased to see Mindy's recent return to blogging.  Her blog and her sweet, honest words have always been an inspiration to me.  Today I discovered an e-mail from her letting me know she'd tagged me to play along on a meme.  I decided to take her bait because 1) well it's Mindy, 2) it's been awhile since I've posted a meme on this blog, and 3) it's about all I have energy for tonight.  So here is my list of 5 things I want to be when I grow up, because it's never too late to live your dreams!

when i grow up i dream of...

1. spending weeks, maybe even months, exploring Paris.  I traveled to Paris with my 9th grade French class years ago.  I was really too young to fully appreciate a trip of that magnitude.  But I've never forgotten it...and I often dream of Paris.  One day I'd like to return.  I'd like to spend my days exploring the back streets, the museums, the cemeteries, the cafes.  I'd like to write all day long and stroll through the moonlit streets at night...and then fall into bed exhausted from the sheet delight of it all.  Would you like to join me?
2. taking my son to see the ocean...and not the Gulf of Mexico...that doesn't count...I mean the Pacific or Atlantic ocean.  I saw the ocean for the first time with my grandparents when I was a child.  When I became a mother I knew one of the things I couldn't wait to do with my child was take him to see the ocean.  I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees so much water stretching as far as the eye can see.
3. being out of debt...no more credit card debt...no more school loans to pay off...i dream of being debt free.  It would feel so good to have that weight off my shoulders, to have some breathing room, and to live in that kind of sweet freedom.
4. bumping along the desert roads of New Mexico in a pick up, a little Lucinda Williams blaring, in dirty jeans, a worn t-shirt, and comfortable boots, my camera beside me on the seat, in search of interesting things to photograph.  I'd like to spend all weekend just roaming the desert looking for cemeteries, abandoned buildings, adobe houses, cactus flowers, and rusty things of all sorts and sizes.  I'd be a regular Georgia O'Keeffe...only with a camera instead of a paint brush.
5. writing my little heart out, getting everything that's stuck deep inside out on the page until there's nothing left and the only thing I can do is close my journal, put down my pen, and leave this life for the next one.

Usually with these tags I leave the tagging open and ask anyone to play along that would like too.  But tonight I think I'll actually tag 5 other lovely bloggers.  So I tag Stefanie Renee (one of my first blogging loves),  Erica (one of my favorite photographers, Jenica (one of my newest loves), CK Girl (one of my most loyal readers), and Kim (one of the bloggers I can't wait to finally meet at ArtFest in April).

This Preschool Thing Rocks!

One night last week we were all in the kitchen and T said to the B-Dog, "Tell mom what you told me in the car today."  The B-Dog came up to me all proud and confident and said, "R-e-d, red.  O-r-a-n-g-e, orange."  Who know my child could spell red and orange?  It was a very exciting moment with lots of cheering and hugging and jumping up and down.  In the life of a four-year-old these little things really are big things.

It's a weird feeling realizing your child knows something, like how to spell red and orange, and you didn't teach it to him, someone else did.  You come face to face with the fact that you can't be there for everything, that you can't do everything, that you have to let go and trust, that there's all these pieces of you child's life you won't be a part of, that they are their own person and they will only continue to build their individuality and differentiate from you.  It also makes you aware of all the influences surrounding your child and that is both exciting and scary.  It truly does take a village to raise a child and as a parent you feel grateful for those who enter your child's life and teach/show them amazing, loving, confidence building, intellect building things...and you worry about those who will enter your child's life and teach them about shame and prejudice and hate and fear, etc.  When your child is standing in front of you showing you how much they are growing and who they are becoming you feel like celebrating but you also feel the ache of loss.  There's a part of you that wants to hold on...and there's a part of you that knows you can't, that knows holding on wouldn't benefit either one of you.  It's a bit of a sobering moment to say the least.  But, while you can, you still crawl into their bed at night and hold them tightly because although you don't want to hold on you do want to savor as much as possible.

This week the B-Dog's school had their annual Open House.  We were able to see some of the things he's learning and he gave us a pretty extensive tour of his classroom.  We even joined the PTA.  Can you believe that?  How did that happen?  I remember when I was the child and my parents were attending PTA meetings.  Next week we'll have our first parent/teacher conference.  And I have to be honest, I'm a little nervous.  I guess there's this little nagging fear that while there we'll find out somethings either wrong with our parenting or wrong with our child.  I know that isn't very likely but still...  You have to keep in mind all of this is new to us.  Those first times are always a little never wracking. 

So now that I'm an official card carrying member of the PTA I guess that makes me a grown up, huh?   

An Invitation Part 3--Tying it all Together

One morning while walking to my office from the parking lot I noticed a butterfly wing on the steps.  One single butterfly wing.  I couldn't help but pick it up.  It was soft and yellow and left an almost gold colored dust on my fingertips.  I tucked it inside my copy of Fools Gold thinking I might use it in a collage or some other creation in the future.  It remained tucked safely out of sight for several days.  To be honest with you I'd actually forgotten I'd pressed it in my book for safe keeping.  Then last Friday after scratching out An Invitation (see Saturday's post) in my journal and while reading the portion of Fools Gold I shared in yesterday's post a gust of wind fingered through the pages of my book taking the butterfly wing with it.  I just happened to catch a delicate wisp of yellow from the corner of my eye but I knew what it was.

My immediate reaction was one of loss.  "Oh my butterfly wing.  It's gone."  But right on the tail of that thought, not even a breath behind it, was a sensation that things were just the way they needed to be.  That little gust of wind, and it really wasn't a very big one, seemed to tie everything together for me--the poem I'd just written about inviting others into our humanness, words about being willing to be vulnerable in order to live a fuller existence, and the paragraph from Fools Gold that affirmed my journey and my ache to find the freedom in the shattered pieces.  Something about seeing that fragile, beautiful broken wing being carried away by the wind seemed to make sense.  It seemed to say something about honoring the broken pieces by just letting them be--not holding on to them, not pressing them between the pages of fear in an attempt to keep them safe, not trying to turn it into something other than what it is--a broken wing.  It seemed right that the broken wing should be traveling the earth in the hands of the wind instead of pressed between the pages of a book or glued down in a collage.  And it seemed to say something to me about where I'm at right now, something about relief and freedom, something about letting it go and letting it be. 

If I wanted to I could have searched the patio for the wayward wing and probably found it.  I could have placed it back inside the book and forgotten about it once again.  I could have stumbled across it one day and then added it to my collection of ephemera.  Maybe one day I would eventually use it in a collage or some other creation.  But that didn't feel like the right thing to do.  The right thing seemed to be to let that broken wing have its moments of flight and by giving it that gift remind myself that even broken things can fly.