Post #3 Birds in the park

Where I live there is a giant green space with planted ancient (looking) trees all in lines. It is a vast space of sharp blades (that no one ever walks on-abominable sidewalks) and these fat-base trees looking like candlesticks that were left on too long and have a collection of wax at the bottom.

It is a lovely spot, families picnick-ing and children laughing and people with sexual tension strolling around with furtive glance. And bird song. So many birds I can hear at this park.It was sometime after I had fallen in love with this spot of peace that I learned the birds were fabricated. 

No, I do not mean that there are stuffed birds squalking as in the old Disney Pirates of Caribbean. But the songs of the birds have been recorded, probably from some aviary thousands of miles away, and their croons and tweets are piped in through loud speakers.

There is of course nothing illegal about creating a false magic scene. Perhaps it is even kind to build a place where we can all commune with nature, but for some reason it feels like it should be illegal. It seems a violation to make us think that there are creatures of flight surrounding us when truly there is only a disk on repeat.

When something shocking happens in your life everything becomes a metaphor and a reminder for the shock. As when someone dies and all bad things for the next month remind you of your sadness, likewise all good moments remind you that you shouldn't feel good in this time of grief. I say this because I realize it is ridiculous that the bird soundtrack should remind me of my mother, but they do.

She was my safety net. For ages, seeming immortal, she was my safety net. It was mom and me against the world (isn't that a song from the 70's). She was my magic and my hero and my hope for what the world could be if I lived up to my full potential. And now I don't know her, I wonder if she was just on repeat mode. Maybe she was a feigning flightless bird that was fooling me for years and suddenly took flight without leaving a trace.

The magic of the world has fled.

I am a young mother now and why my relationship with my childhood confidant (aka "Momma") means so much to me, I feel I should make some kind of excuse for this kind of dependence. I have married and moved into the castle (or mini-apartment) on the hill (or sand-dune) with my prince. Why does she matter more now than ever before? And why does she not seem to care that her loss to me is jarring and violent and soul shaking? How could she think it would be anything else?

And so I am going to go and try to find a park with birds. Real ones. Maybe there will be a matriarch there waiting who is craving a daughter.