Just returned from a monthly Narrative Medicine reading hour at work. We read the following poem, and then wrote for a bit to the prompt: “What is your bird?”

I interpreted the bird in the poem, as the little things in life that can pull you away from all that binds you. A little glimpse outside, a breath of clarity, a tiny piece of peace, perhaps. I wrote:

The simple task of a pot of coffee

Riding the (questionable?) elevator down for

     the paper on the heater

     in the lobby

A new kind of flower at the corner in the cold

Sun on the river on a run,

Maybe a real bird – not a pigeon?

Converstaions – real or lettered – coveted ones,

     actually happening

Not missing the train, making it in

     perfect time, actually

Someone interested in me – genuinely, altruistically?

A cold swim completed.

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It was nice to collaborate with others in a thoughtful, non-urgent, therapeutic way.