Panache & Resilience
This is Lucky. He survived getting bit by a dog. I wrote this in 2013, when this was the most traumatic event of our life. Now, it's 2020, and we share the beauty that we found amidst all the trauma with all of you.
His eyes were blinking. This was unusual. He NEVER blinks. It wasn't in his nature. Slow restrained blinks to cope with the pain. One after another after another. He seemed to be choking back tears. "Could birds even cry?," I thought.
"Jenny's parakeet had just been bitten by our neighbor's dog," my grandfather told me.
"How?" I asked.
"The bird jumped off of Jenny's finger into the neighbor's yard, and their dog went after it," he explained with his usual emotionless tone, but I knew he was sad too. Who could resist not experiencing the grief that comes with seemingly pointless tragedy? Knowing why and when and how did not bring comfort.
Next, we explored what could have been. "I should have never brought him outside," my sister, Jenny, said, with eyelids red and sleeves wet.
"Oh, but, he loves the outside," my mom replied. "He chirps so much when he's out there. But what if you didn't trim off so many flight feathers? Then, he wouldn't be able to fly away and escape".
"I HAD TO!" Jenny cried as she went to grab another tissue. "If I didn't, he would fly away and never come back to me. You remember that one time he got stuck in a tree and wouldn't come down for an hour."
No, it was too late for hypothesis what-ifs. Reducing the significance of the tragedy doesn't really work either. "It's just a bird," grandma added. This only made Jenny cry harder.
"There will never be another bird like Lucky!" Jenny wailed.
Bright red, bird blood stained an area that used to be filled with soft blue feathers that were so much fun to pet. Under his left wing, there was a bone, broken and protruding, from where he was bit by the dog. The bird was all shaken up, his feathers were all ruffled, and his body vibrated from the pain. Staring at his yes, I saw black balls of anguish. These were his only channels for expressing sorrow. His chirps would force his rib cage to expand and contract, further aggravating the wound. My reality disgusted me. I wished it were not true. My wish wasn't granted. Hours later, he was still the same.
Although the parakeet officially belonged to my sister, I felt incredibly attached to him. He was a reliable source of daily joy, a mass of blue features and I took him for granted. Then, I realized that he could die soon. No longer would he be climbing up my shoulder. No longer would he be chirping obnoxiously while I was trying to do my homework. No longer would my sister and I be able to stroke his plume of feathers. I didn't think he could not make it all because of one little accident with a neighbor's dog.
This incident in my life really showed me how fragile and how strong life can be at the same time. We don't know how long we have on this earth. During times of uncertainty, it's important that we become more aware and more appreciative of what we have when we have them. Humans seem to always what what we do not have. Although it is good to have goals in many cases, too much narrow focus on goals can make people lose sight of what they do have rather than what they don't have.
For example, on the day Lucky was bitten, I had two AP tests and therefore, no lunch. During the days leading up to those tests, my every other thought was about those tests and other tests. I had been so focused on tests and work that I hadn't been spending much time with Lucky, and then I realized Lucky could die. I broadened my scope, and contemplated how fortunate I was just to be alive. Not everyone can say that. Then, I made a conscious effort to spend more time with them and other people who matter to me and become more aware and appreciative of my own life.
Although my sister and I continuously pleaded my mom to take the bird to a vet, my mother insisted that we won't because she thought a vet couldn't do much to help. Instead she treated the bird by putting antibiotics on the wound. His every little triumph over fragility brought me great joy: his first jump, when he climbed using his feet and beak, the sound of his chirp, and the sight of new feathers growing above his wound. He still vibrated his wing on the side of the body that was bitten, probably because he was itching.
What we do on earth is ultimately limited by our mortality. In a sense we are all that little bird, Lucky. We can try to build up defenses, but we are all vulnerable to unexpected attacks. I didn't think he could make it this far, but he did. It has been many months after his incident, and he's still alive. Perhaps he was stronger than I had thought, but I would have never known unless he had been bit in the first place. Perhaps we all stronger than we know, more powerful that we realize, more valued than we may think, and more fragile than we would like to admit. Only if we took the time to realize, self-reflect, and admit would we come to understand the various dimensions of our being.
It's a sad, but liberating understanding. As I looked around, everything seemed to look more profound and beautiful. I will never have another moment like this ever again, and I want to feel the full magnitude of what right has to offer - longing for a better time and grateful that it wasn't worse.
My mind drifted to a distant memory from 5th grade: my friend was telling me about how her family just spent $14,000 on spinal surgery for their beloved dog. When I was Jenny's age, parents didn't let us have a dog because they were just trying to keep themselves, me, and my infant sister alive, clothed, sheltered, and fed and pets were a luxury.
Who would have known that years later, I wanted to spend thousands to go see an overpriced Carmel vet to treat this $14 bird? However, no amount of money paid to anyone can totally guarantee Lucky's life. No amount of money can take away the pain. Money can be empowering and wonderful, but it doesn't always provide a solution.
We built a new home for Lucky - one where he didn't need to climb up to his perch. We gave him food and water, prayed over him, and put human ointments on his wound. Mom and grandma had faith in the return of his panache - not only the vibrant plume of feathers but also the confidence and effortless glamour of it. "Living beings are strong," my mother reminded me. Disabled by one wing, Lucky soon learned to use his talons and beak more to climb. As time went on, he would sing again at the sight of the rising sun - he reassumed his role as the most melodious alarm clock.
Sometimes he would sing for no discernible reason, and we could get him to shut up by placing him in front of a television. Sometimes he would shed his old feathers as new ones grew out. The soft turquoise feathers, which gave him radiant beauty and attracted the attention of a certain canine predator, he passed down to us as evidence and a continual reminder of one's capacity for panache and resilience.
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| Lucky |
His eyes were blinking. This was unusual. He NEVER blinks. It wasn't in his nature. Slow restrained blinks to cope with the pain. One after another after another. He seemed to be choking back tears. "Could birds even cry?," I thought.
"Jenny's parakeet had just been bitten by our neighbor's dog," my grandfather told me.
"How?" I asked.
"The bird jumped off of Jenny's finger into the neighbor's yard, and their dog went after it," he explained with his usual emotionless tone, but I knew he was sad too. Who could resist not experiencing the grief that comes with seemingly pointless tragedy? Knowing why and when and how did not bring comfort.
Next, we explored what could have been. "I should have never brought him outside," my sister, Jenny, said, with eyelids red and sleeves wet.
"Oh, but, he loves the outside," my mom replied. "He chirps so much when he's out there. But what if you didn't trim off so many flight feathers? Then, he wouldn't be able to fly away and escape".
"I HAD TO!" Jenny cried as she went to grab another tissue. "If I didn't, he would fly away and never come back to me. You remember that one time he got stuck in a tree and wouldn't come down for an hour."
No, it was too late for hypothesis what-ifs. Reducing the significance of the tragedy doesn't really work either. "It's just a bird," grandma added. This only made Jenny cry harder.
"There will never be another bird like Lucky!" Jenny wailed.
Bright red, bird blood stained an area that used to be filled with soft blue feathers that were so much fun to pet. Under his left wing, there was a bone, broken and protruding, from where he was bit by the dog. The bird was all shaken up, his feathers were all ruffled, and his body vibrated from the pain. Staring at his yes, I saw black balls of anguish. These were his only channels for expressing sorrow. His chirps would force his rib cage to expand and contract, further aggravating the wound. My reality disgusted me. I wished it were not true. My wish wasn't granted. Hours later, he was still the same.
Although the parakeet officially belonged to my sister, I felt incredibly attached to him. He was a reliable source of daily joy, a mass of blue features and I took him for granted. Then, I realized that he could die soon. No longer would he be climbing up my shoulder. No longer would he be chirping obnoxiously while I was trying to do my homework. No longer would my sister and I be able to stroke his plume of feathers. I didn't think he could not make it all because of one little accident with a neighbor's dog.
This incident in my life really showed me how fragile and how strong life can be at the same time. We don't know how long we have on this earth. During times of uncertainty, it's important that we become more aware and more appreciative of what we have when we have them. Humans seem to always what what we do not have. Although it is good to have goals in many cases, too much narrow focus on goals can make people lose sight of what they do have rather than what they don't have.
For example, on the day Lucky was bitten, I had two AP tests and therefore, no lunch. During the days leading up to those tests, my every other thought was about those tests and other tests. I had been so focused on tests and work that I hadn't been spending much time with Lucky, and then I realized Lucky could die. I broadened my scope, and contemplated how fortunate I was just to be alive. Not everyone can say that. Then, I made a conscious effort to spend more time with them and other people who matter to me and become more aware and appreciative of my own life.
Although my sister and I continuously pleaded my mom to take the bird to a vet, my mother insisted that we won't because she thought a vet couldn't do much to help. Instead she treated the bird by putting antibiotics on the wound. His every little triumph over fragility brought me great joy: his first jump, when he climbed using his feet and beak, the sound of his chirp, and the sight of new feathers growing above his wound. He still vibrated his wing on the side of the body that was bitten, probably because he was itching.
What we do on earth is ultimately limited by our mortality. In a sense we are all that little bird, Lucky. We can try to build up defenses, but we are all vulnerable to unexpected attacks. I didn't think he could make it this far, but he did. It has been many months after his incident, and he's still alive. Perhaps he was stronger than I had thought, but I would have never known unless he had been bit in the first place. Perhaps we all stronger than we know, more powerful that we realize, more valued than we may think, and more fragile than we would like to admit. Only if we took the time to realize, self-reflect, and admit would we come to understand the various dimensions of our being.
It's a sad, but liberating understanding. As I looked around, everything seemed to look more profound and beautiful. I will never have another moment like this ever again, and I want to feel the full magnitude of what right has to offer - longing for a better time and grateful that it wasn't worse.
My mind drifted to a distant memory from 5th grade: my friend was telling me about how her family just spent $14,000 on spinal surgery for their beloved dog. When I was Jenny's age, parents didn't let us have a dog because they were just trying to keep themselves, me, and my infant sister alive, clothed, sheltered, and fed and pets were a luxury.
Who would have known that years later, I wanted to spend thousands to go see an overpriced Carmel vet to treat this $14 bird? However, no amount of money paid to anyone can totally guarantee Lucky's life. No amount of money can take away the pain. Money can be empowering and wonderful, but it doesn't always provide a solution.
We built a new home for Lucky - one where he didn't need to climb up to his perch. We gave him food and water, prayed over him, and put human ointments on his wound. Mom and grandma had faith in the return of his panache - not only the vibrant plume of feathers but also the confidence and effortless glamour of it. "Living beings are strong," my mother reminded me. Disabled by one wing, Lucky soon learned to use his talons and beak more to climb. As time went on, he would sing again at the sight of the rising sun - he reassumed his role as the most melodious alarm clock.
Sometimes he would sing for no discernible reason, and we could get him to shut up by placing him in front of a television. Sometimes he would shed his old feathers as new ones grew out. The soft turquoise feathers, which gave him radiant beauty and attracted the attention of a certain canine predator, he passed down to us as evidence and a continual reminder of one's capacity for panache and resilience.
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| Mindful eating |
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