Parrot’s Flight Provides Lesson of Faith

When the bird first flew out the back door that Saturday morning, I figured: Don’t panic. He’ll fly out, perch for a while on a vine or a low branch of the backyard sycamore tree, then he’ll come back. Especially once he sees me and hears my voice, he’ll fly to me or let me coax him onto my finger.

But that’s not what happened.

Instead, the small, iridescent green parrot whose name is Piolin and who has lived and traveled with me continuously for more than 10 years, flew higher and higher in the tree. Suddenly, he flew out of sight.

And I, standing motionless in the backyard, my head thrown back, gazing skyward, was overwhelmed by a combination of dread and fear. For in the flight of that little bird and the uncertainty of his return, I could feel the cumulative weight of all my recent losses and all my impending unknowns.

I’m 38 this year, almost 39. Single. On my own. I’ve been making major life changes rapidly now for about eight months. Going for broke.

First, I changed countries and cities, giving up Mexico City, where I have deep attachments, for Los Angeles, where I often feel alone. After three years away, I returned to my former job at the newspaper I represented abroad.

Within months, I resigned, shaking off finally what I called the paralysis of security. It was an expected move. After many good years, I knew it was time to go, time to grow. I want to try to write a book, my first.

For me, that’s scary. It means I must be self-motivated and good. I joke with friends about the day I’ll be living under the freeway.

Compounding this, the friend with whom I’d been living--a man with whom, for a brief time, I had high hopes--was moving out, albeit at my request. Again, going for broke. But out in the backyard, I thought, “Oh, no. I can’t bear this. The bird’s leaving. He’s leaving. I’m going to be all alone.”

When I first lost sight of Piolin, I had no idea how to get him back. I tried the fire department. They don’t send emergency units out to rescue birds.

It was up to me. From about 10 a.m. until dusk, I followed the bird as he flew from the tallest branch of one neighborhood tree to the tallest branch of another, screeching all the way. I climbed on roofs; I walked into strange backyards. I was only able to track him by crying out plaintively in Spanish, our language, “Ven! Vente! (Come here!)” Sooner or later, he would respond, squawking back. Then I could make him out through the dense foliage, just barely.

Despair set in. But I couldn’t give up. I felt that to abandon him would be cowardly, monstrously selfish, disloyal. After all, he was an integral part of my life. He took showers with me. He flew to me. He trusted me. We were close, this bird and I.

Yet most of the day, like a frustrated child, I wanted to just cry and surrender. Much the same way I often want to give up on a book or on finding a good man.

Piolin spent Saturday night outdoors. The next morning, when the birds and I were the only ones awake, I stood on my roof and yelled “Piolin!” From afar, he answered! Within about five minutes, he flew to the tree nearest the house. We saw each other again for the first time in 12 hours. What a happy, silly, ridiculous moment.

Now the bird was ready. He flew almost directly to a small, dead tree nearby, one I’d never noticed. From the top, he descended methodically, walking and swinging down, branch by blackened branch. It took about three long minutes. I stood directly below, holding up a palmful of sunflower seeds, while a neighbor blocked a cat’s advance. When he arrived at the tip of the lowest branch, Piolin jumped on my head.

Gently, slowly, I nudged him on my finger, then clamped my thumb over his claws. With my other hand, I grasped his tail.

Piolin was back. Elated, exhausted, I found it hard to believe. Not surprising, I guess, since I never did believe, nor could I imagine, that he would return.

Later, once calm was restored, the bird looked straight at me from his favorite kitchen perch and revealed the lesson of his flight. “You have to have faith.” The message was distinct. “I wouldn’t leave you. I was always coming back. But on all fronts--the book, men, me--you need to have more faith.”

At first, of course, I laughed aloud, knowing I was communicating with a bird. Then, I started to cry, knowing he was right.