Looking for Ostrich

Ostrich, where’d you go? I passed by the other day while visiting my old haunts, old running route, my old place. I saw your sprawling grassy space, but not you. I think you must remember me, yes? We had many good times of watching and poking around the sight of each other. You’d peck your head nastily forward into the air as I approached, as I ran from around the corner in my sporty shorts and cushy shoes. You had a special knack for pointing out I was a nuisance.

You never knew I came from the long dirt road that connected the gravel which led to my home with the pavement that led to yours. And I never knew why you were there at all. You had the run of the giant lower yard of the people at the top of the hill. I had the run of the rest of the world, which I went on to sporadically take.

On my side of the fence, I paused my gait to spy on the odd ways of you and your warranted suspicions of me. On yours, you stared. For, and I agree, who on earth was I?

You and I competed. Who would rack up more info about the other? We’ll never know who won.

But I stopped by on my trip out west to visit family and the places that partly formed me, with you included. When I moved east long ago, I took with me a permanent knowledge of the fierce curiosity of the ostrich, thanks to you. I thought it would be a kick for you to see how old I’ve become, relatively, and for me to see how skinny, perhaps, you must be now. But you were nowhere to be found, and this made it hard to look anywhere except forlornly at the ground for a while.

C’est la vie, Ostrich. C’est la vie.

Hey Eagle, where’d you fly off to, buddy? I was down your way last week on my visit back to California, and I thought for sure I’d catch a glimpse of you, old friend. I didn’t see your nest. For that matter, not even your old tree. That stately giant seemed to be long gone, with a cluster of smaller trees in its place. The creek was still running, thank goodness, and the beginnings of new growth since the last big fire had begun to emerge. Thank goodness for that, too. I could see the blackened remains of the monstrousness of the fire all around. It was terrifying but quiet, as if the history of a terrible war was sitting written on a delicate parchment, still as can be.

I hope you are well, and perhaps still there, or somewhere else without so much fire. The whole thing pains me. I wish better days for my family and friends, and just people in general, hoping always for the best. I hope the best for you, too, Eagle. You were the most beautiful thing I saw back then, except for possibly the Sierras with their snow hat in the far distance, and definitely the night sky which had me living in crazy-love under its spell. I’m in the East now, for so many years it’s hard to count, and the city nearby doesn’t compare to these beautiful things, though lately we’ve had more of your relatives in our trees which is such a salve.

Maybe you can come to visit them and me?

Uh-oh, baby Nieces, I think I lost you. I looked everywhere for you, because I was there in your hometown recently, but you were gone, with no sign of you in sight. Not good. I carried with me that photo of the five of you in your elaborate gypsy costumes from some party you all attended as young girls. I carried it in my mind, which I always do, so I can see your ten blue eyes looking straight at me, blue as the azure sea, and sparkling like it, too. Your pure cherub concept of the world is your most obvious feature, and it catches my breath.

But none of this was around when I came. Instead, something far better greeted me as I walked through your various front doors. You’ve long replaced those baby girls--then little girls, then adolescents--with the adults you now are. And this caught me off guard. Talk about catching breath. You’re four miracles, you are. You’re more beautiful than the little gypsies, and in a way purer than cherubs. You are standing at the door of your lives completely ready and with faith in its unfolding. That’s an angelic position to be in, and I’m happy for you. I want it for you as badly as you do, and part of that is selfish. I predict you’ll spread seeds of inspiration around the feet of the folks you’ll meet. There’s a broad benefit to something like that.

Gracie, where on earth have you been, dear? I stopped by Jen’s to say hi during my visit, to show her my boys. The sight of her brought me this madcap joy that kept spilling out of the rental car when I drove off. Her face is the same lovely, her teeth the same friendly, her voice still that tiny pinch of light so nice to my ears. I found I still love her the same as when she was my kind landlord during the days I happily scrounged through college. She told me you’re living on the streets, and that it’s your choice, that you vociferously like it. I tried to imagine what there would be to like about such an arrangement, but I couldn’t. I think mostly it was a statement of acceptance from Jen, and that this was how it was.

Do you remember when I used to babysit you when you were still officially a foster child, so that Jen could play softball with her friends once a week? We had so many giggles, you and me. Your giggle was the best. I can still hear it. Far more important pieces of my past have long left me, but your funny laughter is stuck in my head. That, and your big sky eyes, and how darling you were. Wouldn’t it be nice, when I visit next, to have some laughs together for old time’s sake? Then my joy would be spilling out of the rental car for a long, long way. Probably even the cops would pull me over.

Gracie, I hope you have some bright spots sometimes.

Bike path, let’s just say I saw you coming and going, and nothing’s much changed with you. Except I did notice the huge apartment complex with the architectural flair and various gray blues now planted on your south side. It’s a lovely building but jolting, because my expectation of the route I pedaled twice each day for years includes, frankly, nothing much at all: no buildings, no happenings other than a bit of bird drama. I do like the new blue construction, if I’m going to be amenable, but I loved much more the serene conveyor belt of agriculture research passing by as I rode. It was good for the mind.

But you taught me something, path. Times change in tandem with the constants, like a pair of intertwined dancers, or ping-pong—always playing off each other. You’re still the same route from the outskirts to the center of town, but the town changed around you. Buildings changed, people rotated, activities shifted and morphed, but it never changed that folks like to ride their bikes toward the lovely hills well past your border.

A compass is plainly steadfast, oriented north, just as time orients forward. But I’m neither of these things, so I scan for the hope of tomorrow while making a glance backwards to the treasures and sorrows of yesterday. I keep my eye on what’s possible down the pike with the help of the landmarks I’ve already passed.

Watching young children grow into adults is a guide for all seasons. They show you what you hardly were aware of long ago, and how beautifully we come pre-packaged to learn. This is cause for great celebration and self-understanding. These things do help in the undertakings of tomorrow. To know that we start out slow and small, but then pick up speed and size is heartening. At the very least, it’s a reminder that we’re always at a child stage regarding something, that there’s room to grow.

Hearing of the well-lived life of one friend while receiving word of the great struggles of another—that’s a sobering vantage point. It will hush the mind’s useless rants once we know with true seriousness that all sorts of things happen out there. There are a variety of helpful ways to use this data, and they all lead to progress: within or without. Life’s a mixed bag, so how shall we make sense of it? What questions should we ask? How to add something instead of subtract? And what is best to do? Or to try?

And then there is the strangeness of species, with their singularity and their beauty. Observing them can be a tipping point to greater appreciation of our own creaturehood--and a questioning. I've found that keen observation as a humble apprentice can lead to a habit of happy curiosity. Trying to know something when you’re certain you don’t already—it’s a terrific life trick. It can deliver you to the possibilities ahead in great form. And, along those lines, I suggest starting with an ostrich.