A Bird Flew Into My Living Room
And my first reaction was to reach for my phone.
My apartment sits at a hight enough floor that I can see birds flying near the windows all the time. They fly in loops, describing crazy circles and coming close, very close to the building. Yesterday, however, something very unusual happened: a small black bird flew into the apartment, and couldn’t find its way out.
I saw it with the corner of my eye, that small black blur flying in circles. It took me a moment to realize what it was, and once I did, my first instinct was to reach for my phone. I was going to make a video: look everyone, I have a bird in the house!
The poor thing was scared, it flew in a panic, hitting walls and closed windows, becoming more and more agitated and increasing the chances of causing itself serious harm. But I still wanted to make a video.
And then a new thought popped up in my head: what for?
I deleted the Instagram app from my phone almost two weeks ago for exactly that reason: because I wasn’t living as much as I was looking for the next interesting, unusual thing to share.
I had become accustomed to choose my activities, to study my actions, to frame my entire life in a way that would make me seem like an interesting person to my followers. Whenever I made a choice, I wouldn’t think about what I actually wanted to do or thought was good, but about how others would perceive it.
Would they think it’s silly? Stupid? Or: would this make anyone jealous?
When I realized I had had enough of that mindset, I deleted Instagram from my phone, and my life instantly became much lighter. Easier. More genuine.
The desperate bird flying around in my living room would never benefit from being featured on my Instagram. People would look at it for the whole of the 15 shareable seconds, would think, “wow, a bird in a living room,” shrug, and immediately move on to the next thing.
Every time the bird hit a closed window with a loud thud I felt my guilt over wanted to film it increase. What kind of person wants to film while another living creature suffers? Yet, we have been conditioned to do it all the time.
How many people film house fires, car accidents, their own children crying in pain?
I recently saw a mother holding her cellphone in front of her toddler. The kid was walking towards her, little arms reaching out, saying, “mommy, mommy” with increasing urgency. It wanted to be picked up for a minute, it wanted a consoling hug, it wanted a moment of genuine attention, but the mother kept stepping back, increasing the distance between them and saying in turn, “no, stay there. I’m making a video.”
We have been conditioned to keep our children at arms length because “we’re making a video.”
I wonder if that bird would have “stayed there” had I asked.
I didn’t know what to do to help the poor thing, so I started lifting blinds and opening windows. It still couldn’t find its way out. It kept insisting on flying through the one glass I couldn’t slide open.
Eventually, the bird got tired — or too dizzy from repeatedly hitting its head against the glass — and stopped in a corner of the living room, its body moving to the rhythm of its quick breathing, its tiny black wings spread open.
Again, I wanted my phone. Just one picture.
I brushed the thought off my mind. It wasn’t time for pictures, it was time to act.
I realized that if I couldn’t guide it to an open window, I would have to grab it and let it out. Now was my chance. The bird was still, so I approached. I wasn’t sure how to hold it, I didn’t want to break its wings, so my first attempt was too clumsy and a complete fail.
Time to try again, with more confidence now. I reached for it again, I folded its wings and held it firmly, but not too tight to hurt. The animal moved its head side to side, acknowledging its new hostage situation. I was afraid it would beak my fingers bloody, but it didn’t.
My mind immediately went into overexcitement: I’m holding a bird. An actual live, wild bird.
Just one quick picture: hey everyone, I caught a bird!
There were no pictures. The poor thing had suffered enough. I didn’t want to simply throw it out the window, it might still be too dizzy to fly, so I gently carried to an open window and opened my hands over the windowsill. The bird just stood there.
“Go,” I said. “You’re free.”
It still didn’t move. I carefully removed my hand from under it, placing it on the sill, facing the open world outside. That’s when the bird realized there was no glass between it and the sky and finally took flight.
I watched it go until I couldn’t tell it apart from its other little black friends.
I felt like a hero, until I realized that the bird had pooped on the floor in front of the TV set, and I was the one who had to clean it up.
Thanks a lot, buddy.
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