Memoir or Inspiration

I'm in the thick of it now. My desk stacked with books, half-emptied water glasses, tea, pens, note cards, and more books. I am a mad woman during this stage of the game. With 6,089 words down on an inspirational non-fiction book I've been pondering over the last couple of months, a new thought came to me. I hate when this happens. "What about your memoir?" A two-year project I put aside, the book I submitted to MFA programs, the book that devours my attention most nights and the book I can't seem to shake. In my head, I reserve memoir writing for those that are much older than me. Although, the last seven years have been interesting: a devastating breakup, a twelve step program, a comedy show, and marriage.

I'm just not so sure if it's the story I want to share at this moment, and then I am reminded:

GOD
YOUR MISSION
YOUR PURPOSE
TO YOUR PEOPLE

The notecard reads hanging above my desk.

Gosh, its hot in here. One second, I am going to turn off this heater. Where was I? Yes, memoir or inspiration? "How to" or "my truth?" It's like deciding on whether to start a new relationship or build out, go deep, be broken in the one you have.

Okay, God, where to?

This question, posed to the Big Guy can garner exciting results or at least unexpected outcomes. The real question is about playing it safe or going for whatever it is. Here, at my desk, butt in chair, I am faced with who I am as a writer and what kind of writer I want to be.

Her Name was "Birdie"

Do you think people stay in places and situations longer than they should?

Around four o'clock yesterday a baby bird landed nineteen floors up on my patio. When I initially noticed the flying creature, I did not think much about it. Birds fly, that is a fact. There was nothing unusual about the small bird flying through a crack in the balcony between two sheets of glass and landing on my porch.

My husband and I headed to a movie around seven to conclude the Thanksgiving celebration. It was a chilly night. We started Saving Capitalism on Netflix with Robert Reich before we had to put the documentary on hold to catch our movie.

After the movie, we returned to our posture on the coach to complete the film. From the couch, looking out into the night, the Downtown sparkling with lights, I noticed her, still perched on the balcony was the bird I saw earlier. I slowly walked over to the patio door, gently unlocked it and then cracked it. The small bird did not move. I opened it some more to catch a closer look. Nothing. The winged creature was not afraid and did not move an inch. What was wrong with her? Why was this bird just staring out into the night on my patio? My husband offered up a little advice. He figured that she might have clipped her wing flying in. I immediately wanted to bring her in and care for her. I ran to the refrigerator and peeled off some bread from the Thanksgiving leftovers. I ran back to the door, gently opened it and tossed scraps to my new friend. Birdie did not move. She did not walk towards the food.

"Maybe she's blind." I thought to myself.

"A bit clumsy like my husband, maybe she ran into the glass head first and damaged her eyesight."

It sounds silly now that I am replaying the possibility back to myself. But what was it?

I knew my husband would not go for bringing the bird into the house and after coaxing him into bed, he said, "Babe, please don't bring the bird in the house." I said okay but knew if the baby bird needed further assistance I would do what was necessary.

I tiptoed back to the door, opened it, stepping into the cold night I called out to Birdie like one would do a dog or cat. She ignored me. She still had not gone for the bread pieces. As I approached, she turned and fluttered away.

I was heartbroken. Birdie was fine. She knew exactly where her home was and was merely taking in a different view.