The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
— Maya Angelou
I recently stopped at Petco to pick up some treats for my three pups. I usually go straight to the shelf, grab the package, and head right to the checkout counter. But on this particular day, I was called, quite literally, to the other side of the store.
As the doors swung open, the cheeps and chirps of the birds kept in the corner hit my ears, and, as if pulled by some homing device, I floated over to them. Normally, I steer clear of that area; seeing the feathered beauties behind bars brings me down. How many of them make their way to new homes? How many spend their entire existence under harsh fluorescents in the back of a pet shop? And even if they’re bought, they’re forever in captivity. It just doesn’t sit well with me.
Anyhow, I was particularly drawn to the parakeets, their vibrant blues and greens and yellows, lovely creatures — like paintings come to life. As I stood simultaneously admiring and mourning them, an older gentleman walked up. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he asked. I agreed, of course. He started telling me about his new puppy. How he works long hours and wishes he could make more time for it. How cute and fluffy and rambunctious it is. How he came to get some flea powder, but figured it’d probably be expensive, like everything else these days. He didn’t say so, but I sensed his loneliness, his urge to speak to a stranger in Petco just to make a small connection.
We pointed out which birds were our favorites. The pale peach one, the one with the bright teal hue — we’d never even seen such rich color before. We agreed it was sad to see them there, perched in a line like unpicked fruit, yet living, breathing, stretching out their wings with nowhere to go. Before we parted, he said, “What’s that saying about the caged bird? It makes you think, if they can still sing like this, what are we worried about?”
All in all, it was maybe a four- or five-minute encounter, but it left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Because amid all the noise in the news — from underground (the Earth’s core may have reversed rotation; what does it mean?), outer space (a solar polar vortex; is that a big deal?), nearer skies (spy balloons and UFOs), the nation (the toxic train derailment in Ohio), the city (another shooting spree last weekend; a separate shooting which claimed the life of a local beloved bartender) — the impression is that there’s a lot we could worry about. And that’s just scratching the surface. It’s enough to make you feel boxed in, caged without much reason to sing.
The curious part of that brief meeting was that after we talked, I made my way to the treats and then got in line to pay, but that nice gentleman who’d come for flea meds didn’t get anything at all. He walked away from the birds, and instead of browsing the aisles, went straight for the door. Maybe he forgot his wallet. Perhaps he changed his mind. Or maybe he got exactly what he was looking for: a moment of human connection, however fleeting; a small escape from his own lonesome cage.
We are all tired, weary of the worry. Not unlike those birds, wings clipped, clustered in cages built by the world, our government, our own minds — longing for freedom.
Consider, though, that the cage door is open. You’re not alone in this lonesome mess. We need only to sing — and fly.
