This has happened before: I'm having bird feeder issues. In fact, it happens every time I put up a bird feeder and I manage to forget about it when the trauma is over. Or I will say in a flippant tone, "Oh, remember when we couldn't give away that birdseed?"
Then I'd go back to watching dozens of birds fight over the black oil sunflower seed.
I'm in the before part of that scenario, that part when I can't give away that birdseed.
Who would have thunk it? There the bird feeder is, handing close to trees and vines, good places to hide should a hawk show up. The seed offering is that for all manner of native birds, heavy on the black oil sunflower seeds, even including some niger thistle seed for the goldfinches. This is the mixture that at the old house started squabbles amongst the natives--a junco, house finch, titmouse swarm of tweets, chirps, and screeching.
But now? A big whole lot of nothing.
This bird feeder thing is a good metaphor for everything I try to do, though the metaphor makes my impatient bones clack around on my skeleton. I hate to wait for the good things to happen. I don't want to patiently wait for it all to start. I want the bird festival to commence now. I'm ready! What's wrong with them.
But this waiting is what happens with everything, such as my writing and my writing career. I hang out the birdseed, one bird comes, a week passes, a couple more show up. About two months later, the juncos and chickadees have figured it out and in six or seven months, it's the hit of the town, nuthatches and grosbeaks all over the place. But I had to wait.
Writing takes a lot longer than birds finding a bird feeder, but it's all relative. All I know is that I have the best I can offer out there. Now I need to calm down, hold my bones in place, and wait.
Causes Jessica Inclán Supports
Women for Women International Goodwill Industries Lindsey Wildlife Museum Freecycle.org