Something hit the window. Outside the sill sits a bright red bird. He looks stunned, and possibly a little embarrassed.
Must have flown into the glass. Poor little guy. I go back to my coffee. ThenâŠChirp! Silence. Thud! Again?
I glance over and see the same bird, wearing the same befuddled expression. I decide that nature moves in mysterious ways, and choose to ignore him. Chirp! Silence. Thud!
Reaching the end of my pre-caffeination patience, I walk to the window expecting to see the same bird with the same dazed expression. However, though his feathers are disheveled, his eyes are ablaze and he is glaring at me. This bird isnât stunned; heâs pissed. Chirp! Silence. Thud! Chirp! Silence. Thud! Chirp! Silence. Thud!
Refusing to be bird-bullied, I fight back. I knock on the window and mouth the word, âShoo!â He staggers, pauses and then quickly resumes his kamikaze mission as if to say, âThat all you got?â That is not all I got. I step outside and, with arms flailing, improvise an all-purpose predator yell, âBwaaaah!â
He retreats to a nearby branch to wait me out, and to process the absurdity he just witnessed. Determined to assert my food chain dominance (and to drink my coffee in peace), I turn to my last resort.
I Google: âstop dumb bird crash window.âIt turns out that during mating season, a territorial bird will build a nest and instinctively attack any creature that comes near its vulnerable home. Because birds lack self-awareness, they will sometimes end up attacking their own image in reflective surfaces.
This angry bird isnât attacking me; heâs attacking himself.
Heâs afraid he will lose the things that matter most to him: his safety and security, his home, the place where he will love and be loved. This beautiful bird has the ability to fly through the sky, to build and to sing. Instead, he is using his energy to fight an unwinnable battle against himself.
He canât see how full of color and fire he is. How perfect and alive. He can only see an enemy.
Then it hits me; people do the same thing. We regularly attack ourselves for not being what we think we should be. Iâm not thin enough. Young enough. Attractive enough. Rich enough. Successful enough. Organized enough. Disciplined enough. Educated enough. Ambitious enough. Relaxed enough.
We attack ourselves for decisions we make or donât make. For things we say or donât say.
In other words, so much time, energy and talent are spent fighting unwinnable battles against ourselves.
Why do we attack ourselves so ferociously?
I think we do it for some of the same reasons the bird does it: Weâre afraid. We donât feel safe and secure within our deepest, truest selves. At times, we donât even know or recognize our deepest selves. We are not convinced that love is secure or that we truly deserve a place in this world. We are afraid of becoming invisible, excluded and forgotten. Of being emotionally homeless.
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