Like the Blue Jay by Liz Flaherty

I found this the other day. While I know when I wrote it, I don't actually recall doing it. It was a rough time--the pain in my neck and shoulder was intense and I wasn't in all that good of a personal place, either. It's the only thing I've ever written that was ever influenced by...what, substance use? Although the Percocet was legal, and I took it comparatively sparingly, it made me as well as my writing voice different. Something I find odd is that I'm using this today to avoid writing about politics, and even in my fog, I wrote about them then. 

Finding the essay and not being able to remember its origins or why I wrote it is an uncomfortable feeling. Let me know what you think. Have a good week. Be nice to somebody.

I thought I should try something different. Maybe a short story. Or a poem. Then I thought that would be foolish—I write good essays, but my short stories are suspect and my poems are nonexistent. So I just kept looking out the office window this morning. Thinking

There he is--a bright space in a field of gray

Oh, there, a good first line for a poem. I may do that.

The clothespins hang discouraged and upside down on the line
Unused and unneeded on these days that slip inexorably into cool and damp and wind.
And gray.

I think, and talk, about memories a lot. It’s one of the joys of elderliness, that if you can’t bear what a day has to offer, you have only to remember another day, a good day, to get you through the hard ones.

Across the leaf-strewn grass, the cottonwood stands weary
Dead up the middle, but still growing and hopeful in the branches that surround the center.
It looks pretty with the morning sun on it
Dispelling the gray and lighting up the blue jay that dances among the limbs
Scolding in rhythm to a one-two count only he can hear.

I am on a Percocet high today, the pain in my shoulder and arm alleviated to an extent that I feel like dancing, too. I’m scared of drugs…all drugs…I worry that taking three Extra-Strength Tylenol as opposed to two, every five hours instead of six, will send me across my goody-two-shoes line into addiction. My fingers remain numb to remind me that the Percocet will only work for a few hours and that it’s a cover, not a cure.

I could dance for a little while,
Like the blue jay, chattering out against the gray.

I’ve watched the news almost nonstop this past week, wondering if the person I consider the personification of evil has finally gone a step too far for his actions to be accepted even by his loyal followers. I think of our country, of her allies, of her history, and am embarrassed by what she has become. I’ve always hated when people spoke of things in the past as if everything was all wonderful then. They are the ones who don’t remember that racism, sexism, and a raft of other isms were alive and well in the “good old days,” too. They are the ones who elected Richard Nixon. Twice.

I am discouraged. What I called a high from Percocet isn’t really—I understand that. It’s a fog that diminishes the pain for a while, but it’s still a fog.

Still gray.

Time moves on between the first dose of the day and the second. My arm hurts and a new ache starts at my wrist. Does hurt chase itself? I wonder, twisting my arm in all different directions in a vain attempt to find the right one.

Of course, it does. When you’re hurt, no matter how hard you beat it back and pretend all is well and smile great big, it crops up in a new place. A new face. Someone you trusted and shouldn’t have. Someone you loved and still do.

So you move around in search of a comfortable place
To dance on the branches
Like the blue jay in his glory
Finding joy.

It is nearly time for the second dose. My fingers are numb and there’s fear there. Other than three times in labor, when the rewards so outweighed the gasping entreaties for it to be over, I’ve never experienced unrelenting pain. It’s not the worst, but it doesn’t go away.

The branches crack and crumble in the wind, making music
For the bird to dance to
When it looks as if he will give up and retreat to the ground
He instead finds another limb that suits him better.

With a sigh of relief, I take the round white pill, hoping it will do its thing and worrying about taking them. Not because I sit in judgment of people who have addictions but because I don’t want to be one. While I’ve been curious about the effects, I’ve never felt a need to try them. Now, with pain chasing itself through my arm and shoulder, that need pushes at me. And I push back. I have three more days’ worth. That will be enough. It has to be enough.

Like the Blue Jay

There he is--a bright space in a field of gray

The clothespins hang discouraged and upside down on the line

Unused and unneeded on these days that slip inexorably into cool and damp and wind.

And gray.

Across the leaf-strewn grass, the cottonwood stands weary

Dead up the middle, but still growing and hopeful in the branches that surround the center.

It looks pretty with the morning sun on it

Dispelling the gray and lighting up the blue jay that dances among the limbs

Scolding in rhythm to a one-two count only he can hear.

I could dance for a little while,

Like the blue jay, chattering out against the gray.

Still gray.

You move around in search of a comfortable place

To dance on the branches

Like the blue jay in his glory

Finding joy.

The branches crack and crumble in the wind, making music

For the bird to dance to

When it looks as if he will give up and retreat to the ground

He instead finds another limb that suits him better.

It will be enough, dancing on the branches of the singing cottonwood

Even when the wounds move on to other places

Especially when they move on to other places

I’ll dance like the blue jay.

And find joy.