Dance For The Crows

590. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

The first real storm of the season blew in last night. It is raining hard, scouring the leaves from the trees. My nemesis crows are clutching onto branches, bobbing up and down in the wind, miserable with water running from their beaks. I am warm and dry inside and stand next to the sliding glass door so they can see me. Days like today are the only time I have the upper hand with the crows. And, since I just used the word “hand” I show the crows my opposable thumbs; I can open doors, steer a car, or hold a hand! HA! I take great petty delight in rubbing in my advantages, especially since my advantages are imagined and most especially since now I am currently safe beneath a roof and secure behind a closed door; they can’t dive bomb me here. Next season there will be hell to pay but I’m not worried about that now. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

The truth is that I love the crows. I love our game most of the time. It brings out the 3rd grader in me. They fire my imagination. That I am standing in front of a glass door dancing for the crows so they can see that I am warm while they are wet is a miracle of delusion. For all I know, the crows ride the bobbing branches like a rollercoaster, love the new rain like I love a warm ocean, and are looking at me thinking, “Look at that poor sad feather-less creature.” To the crows, I am an animal behind glass; they are at the people zoo all of the time.

I remember the day years ago, deeply angry at some perceived offense, when I realized that I was the only person in the story that was suffering. I was creating the angst, interpreting the story, invested in the drama. No one else in the story was in pain because no one else was telling a story of pain. I was. The fear was in my body, the tension was in my body, and the story that was driving the fear and the tension was in my mind. No one else was responsible for how I felt or what I perceived. That was all mine. I could choose to continue my suffering or I could choose something else. I was free to choose. And the moment I had that revelation, the drama dissipated. Drama and victimhood are misty fog that burns off in the light of choice.

The freedom choice brings allows for magnificent delusion; stories, when conscious, afford a playground of possibility. Today, I taunt the crows and pretend that they burn at my advantage, staring back at me with gritted beaks just waiting for the spring day when I will take a walk and expose my human head like a target for their aerial attacks. “Retribution will be sweet,” they think as the cold winter rain dribbles down their feathers, watching me wiggle and laugh behind the glass. I dance now so that I will deserve every sneak attack that comes my way when the seasons change and tilt the advantage in the crow’s favor. In the mean time, I will make some hot chocolate and be careful to sip it slowly, moaning with pleasure just to make those villainous crows bristle (didn’t you know that crows love chocolate).

3 Responses

  1. I arrive every morning in the dark of my computer room and by the light of only the computer, with coffee cup to my lips, I receive my blessing of the day…David’s Story…THANK-YOU…p.s. I can see those silly crows 🙂

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