If the title fits, I’ll wear it.

I am now the lady who talks to birds.

When I write, I almost always do so in my office overlooking my container garden and the green space across the street. I open the window, inviting the breeze to bring in inspiration and clarity. This invariably allows my attention to drift away from words and paragraphs, revisions and expert presenters, distracted by the activity of the world.

I’m pretty sure you know all this from previous essays, but I remind you because this is relevant today.

It is a joy I take seriously – this communion with nature.

This week I received some bad – not terrible, not catastrophic – news. A piece that I submitted to a big fiction contest didn’t even make the long list. My entry was one of 15,000 entries, and the long list was less than 1%, but I had hopes, I had dreams. A writer’s journey is filled with rejection, regardless of how promising the work is, but I’m not used to this quite yet. I gave myself 24 hours to pout, sulk, and recheck my email in case I missed the notification before moving on to what’s next. I celebrated the experience as part of the many steps toward eventual publication. I moved on with the help of my view out the front window.

Flowers console me. The lavender is impressive in this, its sophomore year. The pansies the color of dandelions and sunshine, the bright pink flowers I can’t name, the oregano eager for planter domination, the strawberry plant hugging the corner, slow to bloom – all compete for my attention.

This week as I researched my historical fiction work-in-progress, I found new information deep in a YouTube rabbit hole, revelations that break the premise of everything I’ve written so far. The discovery threatens not just the work, but my confidence in writing about this subject. I feel somewhat betrayed by the new information, as if my book’s protagonist has been lying to me the entire time. She died in the 1970s, I doubt I can hold her responsible for this one. I enjoyed writing the current storyline and now I must abandon it, in favor of something that fits within the facts I know. I gave myself 24 hours to pout, sulk, and consider throwing in the towel, before moving on to solving the problem of where the story goes now.

A squirrel audits many of my writing workshops, sitting on the fence rail just outside my open window, cocking its head and twitching its tail at the day’s lesson before losing focus and running back to the grass swaying gently in the wind. It amuses me to think of a squirrel learning how to write, pitch his debut project, and turn disappointment into content.

At my doctor’s appointment this week, she requested a little more blood, a few more tests, just to see which direction we’re trending before deciding our next course of action. It seemed like a precaution. I rolled up my sleeves, wishing I chugged more water before the appointment.

My test results from three months ago were high, nowhere near ideal. This week’s results came back even higher, not the desired result. Again, this is not terrible, catastrophic news. It’s disappointing. It points to lifestyle changes, additional tests, adjustments. Another 24 hours to pout, sulk and consult internet “experts” about non-pharmaceutical interventions, before the inevitable call for a follow-up appointment.

In the midst of this, I helped my mother move into my neighborhood, setting up utilities, insurance, internet.

In the midst of this, I disappointed someone I love with a lack of responsiveness and insufficient regret.

In the midst of this, I wondered if it was time to get a job with a paycheck and benefits, enough to pay the mortgage, but not so much that I would lose my ability to sit at my window in the morning, writing and watching, researching and listening, allowing the breeze to usher in joy.

I return to my laptop, eyes distracted by the slope of branches, ears alert for the chorus outside. When enough birds chime in, I take a break to open my Merlin app to identify their distinct voices. I wonder if that, in fact, is a chipping sparrow when my well-fed robin friend – the one who delights in pooping on my planters, porch and any vehicle in the area – flies to the fence. In his beak, a long, fat worm, likely plucked from the planter, loops as if a lasso. I watch the robin as he watches me, hopping around as if to show off.

“Look at your worm, Robin! Good job,” I praise the bird, loudly enough for him to hear through the screen.

As it turns out, my voice exclaims loudly enough for my new neighbor to hear as he walks his dog up the sidewalk, past my yard. The traitorous robin with his worm flew away, leaving no evidence. My neighbor smiles and waves, I smile, wave and blurt, “Good morning!”

What else is there to do besides laugh?

And accept that I am now the lady who talks to birds.

The neighbor might say I’m the lady who talks to birds that aren’t even there.

At least I keep showing up at my window, looking for the words, inspiration and perseverance. Failure is in the giving up, not the trying.

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