to be a bird

Ben Folds has a song called 'Birds.' Its relatively short and contains no lyrics. While it is generally the lines and rhymes in a song that capture my attention and captivate my heart-- I find few things more refreshing than challenging lyrics and provoking imagery-- there is just something about this song. It lifts my feet from the pavement, sends my mind flying and never ceases to produce a smile.
After a couple of years I find it to be perhaps (past) time to describe the origins of the name of my little blogging endeavor, particularly as I find myself at yet another junction in the journey.
You could probably gain a more precise explanation of the name bird that was bestowed upon me long before I can remember from the members of my family, but here goes. Almost 25 years after my birth, I can't even think of the last time I heard my brother (who was pushing for the name Lester at the time of my arrival) call me Katherine to my face. All these years it has simply been, 'bird.' I think it comes from this little free spirit (we'll call it that for lack of a better term) that I possessed as a child. I could never just sit. I was always just perched on furniture (or whatever I found within reach to climb), i sung or hummed all the time, and ate like a little bird too. So it stuck.
Fitting for someone who still can't seem to settle down or 'sit' in one place, I suppose. I find my heart and mind, in a similar perched position, still not exactly sure where I belong, challenged by commitment and decision-making.
Interestingly, as of late, I have found myself in a paradoxical moment. Longing for roots while desiring to fly.
Oh to be a bird! Ever soaring, but coming back to that finely woven home, that perch. I am restless to see the world, but my feet grow weary and my heart heavy.
So as I spent the day feeling quite lonely roaming around this new place where I know few people, I began to start feeling a tad sorry for myself. You know the, 'i have no friends and if I have to spend one more day cooking for one I will burst into tears,' kind of moments. This sorrowful self was thankfully an ephemeral state as I was quickly called to the realities of the world of which I am a part. I began to think particularly about refugees seeking asylum, sanctuary, a mere piece of the home from which they find them self fleeing. How strange to be this bird. No guarantee of return. No one waiting. Rarely a home woven lovingly or even a perch to rest upon. Perhaps persecuted, judged, forsaken, forgotten. Most probably the very things from which one was escaping. Truly these are the elements of weary feet and heavy hearts.
Nearing the end of my hours of wandering I ran across a festival (I can get lost in a place a trillion times over and I always seem to run into a festival). It was to promote awareness for and celebrate the lives of refugees. My goodness. They are so near to us but we rarely notice. Caught up in our lives, our people, our selves that we forget to welcome in those seeking sanctuary. As I say we, I mean I. I forget them. I overlook them. I turn my eye from the policy and harsh criticisms made against them. I buy into the stereotypes. I grow too comfortable in my life and fearful of change to see them as my neighbor. Oh that I may see them as myself. That I may remember their wandering feet and struggle for roots.