I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

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 am sure this is not what Maya Angelou had in mind. And really for the safety and sanity of my friends and family, I don’t sing – ever. Yet the phrase about the caged bird keeps running through my mind.

Being caged is an illusion in some respects. I have a beautiful house, and a lovely family. We have two cars that work sometimes, so we do have access to the outside world.

Yet sometimes life with Cowden’s Syndrome can make you feel caged. It takes away the freedom, the ability to go as you see fit. It robs you of the carelessness that should be an inherent part of a 10 year old’s day.

And even as some days I want to cry with frustration – my young caged bird continues to sing…

This is the summer of irony. All over the place and in our faces.

Not lost on us are the numbers of family and friends whose privacy I respect too much to mention, but whose lives are upended, and who are in their own right “caged birds.”

All summer we sat at doctors. One after another. Hours upon hours upon hours.

Now- we don’t have any appointments. But the broken wing- the wrapping on her hand and the stitches prevent us from getting too far.

The hand has to be elevated with a Carter Block, until the stitches come out Thursday. Then we can talk about resuming therapy. Today the calendar is empty. The sun is shining. And here we sit.

Not exactly alike - but you get the idea — Not exactly alike – but you get the idea

The pool is crystal blue under the bright sky. Taunting.

I can take her out but if we go too far, or do too much, the throbbing begins again. Maybe we will make a quick trip somewhere just to get out.

I have a million things to do. No shortage of work to keep me busy. But, I can’t seem to get anything done. Irony. You want and want for time to get things done, and then… it’s like I developed a full blown case of ADHD. I can’t keep up with my mind, and the list just grows.

If I take responsibility, some of this feeling comes from my general lack of spontaneity. I am a planner. Much to my detriment. I long to be the one who just gets in the car and goes. But even though I struggle with this and try to gain a glimmer of impulsive behavior, the reality of our lives seems to tether us close to home.

Allergy meals are tough to come by and can’t be taken for granted. Food and enzymes must be planned….The consequences are dire and painful. I won’t take the risk.

So, here we sit. God bless her, and her patience as she alternates reading, TV, and playing with the iPad.

I am working on laundry and the floors, and cutting some 100s charts out of laminate for school. Always moving, and accomplishing precious little.

I am breaking out into a cold sweat as I schedule our next round of appointments. What a feat. Distressing, disturbing, necessary waste of time. I have about 8 scheduled for us from December to February already. And a few others sprinkled in for good measure.