I Know She Left Because My Earl Grey Tea is Decaffeinated

This morning while I was in my courtyard, obsessively planting flowers in pots, with every door and window wide open,  letting the cool, late morning springiness inside, Little Miss Hummingbird flew into the house.

I only know this because on one of my way-too-many visits to the bathroom (coffee) she buzzed thisclose to my head on her way to the ceiling. Panting frantically at the staggering altitude of nine feet, she tried her best to find the sky by repeatedly banging her wee head into the drywall. Meanwhile, I attempted to calm her by pointing out all FIVE available exits, in my best flight attendant voice——and then sat patiently in a chair nearby waiting for her to figure it out.

Throughout my time on planet earth you guys, hummingbirds have brought out the best in me. They reinforce my belief in magic and tiny birds with neon feathers who zip around powered by wings that beat a gazillion times a second yet seem chill and wise and speak a lyrically chirpy little language that I’ve only recently forgotten. Dr. Seussical in all the best ways, when they deem me worthy of any visitation——I want to scream with glee and grab a frilly pink skirt and my best party shoes.

As an aside, she’s the first visitor I’ve had in eight weeks, so…yeah…

Anyway, in between desperately searching for her freedom, Miss Hummingbird rested on a pussywillow branch in a vase by the window and clearly channeled my mother by finding every cobweb in every freaking corner of the living room ceiling (in our family that is called cob-shaming you guys!) Circumnavigating my living room wearing the webs on her head like some kind of Quinceanera veil, she eventually found one of the five doors while I had my back turned making her a cup of tea.

As happy for her as I was, I couldn’t help but feel a tad disappointed.

Number one, she didn’t even say goodbye. Number two, I selfishly wanted to spend more time with her, you know, so she could impart some of her hummingbird juju and tell me what the energy was like out there in quarantine-land, and number three, I was curious about her inability to see her way out. I mean, how do I say this in the least judgie-Mcjudgerson way possible?

All she had to do was look around.

Which she did eventually, but in the meantime she got visibly overwrought by fixating on the ceiling.

Uh…WE do that, you guys!
I totally do!

As hard as I try, and as much practice as I’ve had at advocating doing THE EXACT OPPOSITE, sometimes often, I am completely incapable of turning my head that three inches to the left where the flashing red, EXIT is beckoning me home.

Why? Why do we do that sweet Lord?

Fear? Inability to focus? Laziness? Wanting things to be where we want them to be (ie) where they’ve always been?

I was about to say human nature, but maybe it’s just…nature.

I wonder how Ms. Hummings (how I imagine she refers to herself) tells the story of her morning adventure? Is it framed around her chance encounter with a woman in sweats and dirty hair but a nice smile—or is it a horror story centered around a room with no way out? I’d be curious to know.

As I’m writing this you guys, there’s some kind of giant fly or winged insect circling my tiny she-shed, totally mistaking my right ear as their way to blessed freedom while completely bypassing the WIDE OPEN DOOR less than a foot away. Trying hard not to kill it but thinking maybe natural selection is in order.

Carry on,
xox