The morning this week I returned home to find a hawk perched on the V of our roof surveying her grounds to nest, hunt and kill after a my pre-dawn run with Virginia, I decided the time to let our kittens out into the wild jungle of suburbia would be never.
But I know in my heart that's not true. From my own experience, caging an animal ruled and dictated by the laws of nature is not really the best way to keep it safe. Outside of an Alanon meeting this weekend I told a scared, grieving mother that when my own mother tried to hold me down I clawed and bit and raged until she let me loose to do what I was all along hell bent on doing. The times she released me to my own fate were the times I loved her best, seeking her arms or council all on my own.
And so, eventually, I too, will have to let the kittens out even if I do try to lure them back through the cat door every few minutes with tasty bits of raw meat.
My own birds have been circling lately, but not those old predators in for the kill, the flighty ones inside stirred up inside by the music I've allowed myself to listen to again after along time away. I used to drown in music, or maybe music was just what I heard when I was drowning. Pieces of myself with which I've been playing hide and seek, shadows of nights under the stars able to wander any way the wind blew, remnants of that heartbroken beautiful little girl who had no idea who she was or what she was worth. I've been listening to that old music once again, allowing myself be taken all the way in and under with the hope, the belief in my new ability to rise, to resurface, to not stay down and under too long. And the only reason I'm here, who I am now, is because my mother finally gave me her blessing and let me go.