Invisible Barriers

A hummingbird flies into our casita

It's Monday morning, and my sweet old dog Bella is standing in the doorway of our casita. She stands there unmoving for a minute, then two. She seems to be savoring the experience of simply standing on the threshold between the quiet indoor world and the untamed outdoor world with its gentle morning breeze, wildness, and potential.

Time seems to have slowed down for Bella as she's gotten older, or maybe even ceases to exist. She can be suspended in the matrix of experience, drawn into the horizons in all directions. I often want her to hurry up when she is standing in the doorway, but today I simply tried to step into her paws and savor along with her. As she stood there, there was a sudden flurry of wings near my face, a precisely moving whirlwind moving to and fro. A hummingbird had flown right past me into our casita, with its darkly painted walls and bright white ceiling.

I love hummingbirds for their otherworldly grace and computer-like precision. I was astonished that there was now one in our casita, and it could not seem to find its way out. It moved along the ceiling, bumping into it at times, and racing from one end of the room to the other. Occasionally it would rest on the lamp shade, then fly around again searching for the safety of the sky. I tried to use a broom to shoo it out, but it was way too nimble for my feeble skills. I felt like a grade school basketball player against an NBA star.

So I opened up both sides of the french doors so it would have a bigger escape path, and blocked the light from the other windows as best I could so it might move toward the light of the doorway. It seemed to want to move toward the light, but the light of our white ceiling was no escape for this dear creature. I placed a table with a large plant on it just outside the doors, hoping it would pause to rest there, then move up towards freedom. I was afraid that it would keep moving up toward the false safety of the concrete “sky” above it, and would exhaust itself to the point of collapse. Perhaps then I could bring it outside, but would it then be too weak to survive?

I soon realized that there was not much I could do, so I laid on the bed and prayed for its liberation. Safety is not up! Go down young bird, go down! I hoped it would pick up my thoughts as it flew around and around.

I felt for this precious being. It just did not understand its circumstance. Its instincts said safety was up toward the light and the sky, but those instincts were not programmed for our white ceiling and dark walls. It was facing an invisible barrier to its survival.

Then it struck me how we humans face invisible barriers too: circumstances that we just don't understand and our instinct is to move toward what has been safe for us in the past. Had your feelings hurt? Then just keep them hidden. Been criticized for your opinion? Just keep your mouth shut. I've known women who experienced sexual abuse in their home for whom safety was found in keeping on the move, so they run and run, only stopping when their escape options are in place.

Though it may be easy for us humans to understand the barrier the hummingbird faced, human life is so complex that most of us will experience banging into invisible barriers many times in our loves. Like the hummingbird, we will likely fly back and forth, trying the same failed strategies over and over. After about 45 minutes of flying near the ceiling, the hummingbird flew down toward the floor, and this time as it flew up it went up toward the light of the doorway and out to its liberation. My heart jumped for joy!

I don't know why the hummingbird decided to fly down. Maybe it simply decided to try something new. Maybe it got curious about something it saw on the floor. Maybe my telepathic message was eventually received. I will never know.

What do we do when we bang into our own invisible barriers? Do we lunge toward what has been safe in the past? Do we need to exhaust ourselves before we try something new? Do we sit down and get curious? Do we ask for help? How can we understand what we are not able to see? It's a worthy contemplation.