One afternoon last month, I had dropped my son off at his day program and had a few minutes to spare before an appointment. I chose a spot on the rooftop level of a parking garage to steal a bit of quiet time in my car.
The desert’s usually clear blue sky was packed with dense, white and grey clouds, hinting at rain but holding back. It was peaceful for a minute, until it became clear that I had parked almost directly under a flight path close to the airport. Every few seconds an airliner appeared in the sky with its landing gear down, moving fast and loud, then dropping below my passenger side window toward a runway behind me.
At one point, I glanced up at the sound of another approaching jet and was confused by what I saw. Flying right under the metal bird — another one, feathered. For a second, I thought I was about to see a horrible mid-air collision, but the bird and plane were not as close as they appeared from my perspective.
The plane continued past my right shoulder while the bird circled back, his wings spread wide, black against the cloudy sky. The bird (a raven, I think) took a slow loop below the clouds, and then another, probably catching a strong jet stream.
As I watched this bird coast in circles, I felt a loosening of tension I didn’t realize I’d been holding — a combination of our usual rush to get out of the house (my son’s need to go at his own pace always conflicts with my desire to be on time) and the pile of books and notes on my passenger seat, an ambitious stack created by my plan to use every minute my kid is at his day program in some “productive” way.
I found myself mesmerized by this bird taking his own sweet time getting someplace or maybe no place at all. Wasting a good chunk of valuable time watching a bird fly in circles certainly wasn’t on my “to do” list that day. But there I was.
The black bird had made his way north, in graceful, overlapping arcs, moving right to left across my windshield, when another jet approached on my right. As the engine grew louder, the bird pulled out of his loop and shifted his trajectory to fly parallel to his faster competitor. Wings slanted back, head thrust forward in a dive — a mini Stealth bomber. I played along, closing my right eye to help the bird soar mightily alone with a jet engine soundtrack.
When the plane moved on and its sound faded, the bird flapped once as if to shake off the illusion and returned to his leisurely circling. I imagined him laughing at the manufactured hustle of the plane — yeah, yeah, you’re faster, but I’m having more fun over here.
I’ve since learned that ravens native to our Sonoran desert are known for their “aerial acrobatics,” so I’m glad I took the time to pay attention to this one’s air show.
But this experience has really stuck in my mind all these weeks later, I think, because I felt something in the contrast between that bird’s joyously lazy flight and the mechanical driven energy of the jets sharing his air space.
(Or I’m still trying to justify that wasted time by finding an important lesson in it, as I tend to do ;)
I wish my son could have the freedom to move at his natural rhythm, un-pressured by a world and a mom who would really like him to pick up the pace.
I know that my son builds skills in minuscule steps and 100’s of repetitions — and still I want to rush him through, driven by my fear that there are not enough hours in his developmentally delayed timetable to teach him everything he needs to know before I’m gone.
My worries for him — over his health, his ability to communicate, his stress levels, his daily living skills — cram every goal into the “top priority” slot, setting up impossible demands on my (and his) time and energy.
But when I can stop rushing and trust and let him try and fail and get frustrated and, over lots of time, gain confidence in himself, I get to see the most beautiful pride brighten his face when independently completing even the most mundane tasks like loading a plate into the dishwasher, or learning to pull the cord just so to close his blinds, or tapping his card to buy his own lemonade and cookie at Starbuck’s.
Despite my goals for him this year looking so much the same as last year’s (and the year before that), he is making progress. He’s just cruising along in overlapping circles rather than straight lines. If I can remember that, I can step back and enjoy watching the way he learns.
By the time the raven’s northward meander had taken him far enough to my left that I had to watch him through my driver’s side window, the clock insisted I had to stop this lollygagging. I gathered my stuff, stepped out of the car and stood, looking up and grinning in spite of myself when I saw that a second raven had joined the first. Two birds now, swooping in companionable loops around each other.
Did I see a metaphor in how they flew together in perfect sync, how they seemed to agree that there was no destination more urgent than soaking in what it felt like to get there, in their own time, being OK with whatever the day would bring them?
Not right away. But it did lighten my heart to watch the two of them coast in tandem. Plus, I’ve seen too many Disney movies to avoid imagining those birds cackling about the wicked jet stream and complimenting each other on their kick-back gliding techniques.
And with the sound of the busy jets behind me, I shook off my usual hurried pace, and walked down the parking structure, keeping those carefree, ever-circling birds in view as long as I could.
Photos by Stormseeker on Unsplash and Darya Tryfanava on Unsplash
This was a beautiful read. I love the way you used the bird and the jets as a launching off point to discuss your thoughts about your son.
Really well done. Thank you.