You do not live in the northeast long without witnessing the seasonal migration of Canadian geese away from our cold climes; their journey a harbinger of winter's rapid arrival. Late last Sunday afternoon, I felt less witness and more participant as the rush and roar of them seized something primal in me, sweeping me up in their journey. My sister-in-law and I were out shooting photos, when we felt a gush of wind and an assault of noise. SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK! SQUAWK! I barely had time to lift my camera to the sky and snap this photo before they passed by.
What must it be like to heed such a call, to know when it is time to move and when to return? Often I have thought I could take flight if I only knew the direction, if I had inside me such an unwavering beacon. And, in that moment part of me lifted and soared to the possibility. And, part of me stood anchored to home and hearth, to the familiar. And, I'm not sure one path is preferable. We always dream of the flight, but there can be steel in the staying, seeing a path through. The geese? Perhaps they know the best of both. They come and they go, choosing here and there. And, I can look up and go with them and I can plant my feet and discover in both air and ground the totality of who I am.
Writing prompt: When have you stayed? When have you gone? And, how did you know it was time to do either?