Ducklings

When we are very, very young, so small and new that later recollections of that time are wispy, cloudlike blips that pop in and out of our consciousness so quickly as to make us doubt their veracity, we are shaped, irrevocably, by our experiences and environment.

Like fragile, wobbly ducklings, wet with dew, eyes milky and unfocused, we’re imprinted by our surroundings and set on a course that we’ll either spend a lifetime embracing or, alternatively, rejecting in search of a narrative more to our liking.

It’s not fair, really, to be so buffeted by the random tides of fate at what, two years old – perhaps six months? Even earlier? – as to be permanently affected, the course of our little toddler histories forever altered due to an absent or emotionally unavailable parent, the unchecked temper of an immature sibling or babysitter, the hellfire and brimstones of an overzealous preacher meant to save our baby souls and set us on the path to redemption.

It’s just not fair. Or is it?

Perhaps, after enough years pass, after we wrack our earnest brains trying to understand what we did to deserve such inherited dysfunction, when we’re past the shame of seeking answers on a therapist’s couch and only want to be healthy and healed, goddammit, when we’ve tried self-help, meditation, yoga, acupuncture, and every other new age remedy under the sun and still feel lost and shaky, perhaps then, that’s when the fog lifts, and we begin to remember.

We remember another time, another place before this one. Ethereal, dreamlike, almost imperceptible, yes, but undeniably real. We feel it when we get quiet and learn to settle into ourselves, to get out of our heads and into our hearts and listen, really listen, to what’s there.

It’s possible…we think, and then we get scared and pull back and dismiss what we know deep down to be true. We’re reminded again when walking in nature, captivated by the interconnection of all living things and the way the trees speak to us, waving their long fingers in synch with the breeze and telling us to slow down, there’s no need to hurry, we’re home, we’re home, we’re home.

It’s possible, we think then, as the wind whispers in our ears and our feet root into the solid ground beneath us, that there’s more to this life than the eye can see and the mind can grasp. It’s possible that somewhere on the flip side of this great big cosmos, there’s a grand celestial ballroom packed with souls coming and going, all filled with glee for their turn on this topsy turvy roller coaster we call humanity.  

Maybe, just maybe, we’re all here to learn lessons of our cosmic choosing, to stretch and grow and deepen our individual and collective consciousness and then return to do it again and again and again in a never-ending universal cycle of evolution. Far out, man. How much fun is that?

And then we dismiss the idea as quickly as it arrived. We shake our heads and our conditioned thinking takes over once more.

Our duckling selves become distracted by more pressing matters like food, shelter, companionship, security, comfort, even Netflix – especially Netflix, if we’re honest – and we shake our fluffy-bottomed tailfeathers and get back in line, endlessly marching to someone else’s predetermined rhythm. I mean, we want to fit in, right? Why rock the boat and risk ridicule and rejection with these woo-woo notions?

And yet. They’re still there. They call to us in the dark of night as we drift off to sleep, in the morning after a glorious sunrise and a good run when all seems bright and filled with potential, when we let ourselves float between the tangible and unseen, pulled by an unquenchable knowing that we’re so much more than we give ourselves credit for.

We are shaped by our experiences and environment, it’s true. We are battered and beaten and oh, so confused and conflicted by others’ unconsciousness and unhealed wounds that fuel and inflame our own. We push back, we struggle, we cry, we retreat, we long to break free.

And yet. What if that’s why we’re here?

What if, with practice, with trust, with innate wisdom, we tiptoe toward that knowing? What if tentative, tender step by step, we stretch our wings, conditioning be damned, and lean just a bit more into the sparkly, glorious beings we were always meant to be?

What if it’s all possible, really, truly, double-dog-dare-ya-don’t-be-afraid-just-try-it-possible? What if we’re really here to learn to fly?