Dying Flowers

  
   I felt almost like hitting him. "Insolent child! How dare you!"

.   .   .

  
   There I was, sitting on a bench in the park, enjoying the fragrance of blossoming flowers from the nearby bushes. Along he came. Armed with a pair of scissors, he clambered onto the bench and reached for the highest flower. Snip! It was cut. Dead to the world. Never to live again.

   Well, I'm a timid person. I don't react openly when things aren't my way. But my mind was racing; tearing this kid apart: Why? Where do such thoughtless actions come from? Where is the father of this child, who would have certainly prevented such an occurrence? Where is he?

   Lagging he was, but not too far behind. To him I'll give a piece of my mind, I thought to myself. As I approached, the father bent down and took the flower from his son. Hugging him tightly, he said: "Thank you."

   With all my politeness, I'm sure my ire must have seeped through my words: "How could you let your child bring about death to a poor flower? What did it do wrong? Have you no appreciation for beauty?"

   Said he to me: "Look at the bigger picture! Know that flowers were created to bring joy to people like you and me. Can't you see the delight I have in my child's deed? And as for the flower - in time another will grow on this very branch; just as lovely. To bring another smile to one more father."

.   .   .

   We look around us, and all we see is the death of flowers. Some neatly cut, others roughly pulled off their branches. At times even just a normal wind seems enough to sever them from their source of life. We want to scream out; to yell at the father that could let all this happen. The one who seems to let things spin out of control. Can our father not see the pain, the loss?

   Sometimes we're lucky. We are explained the way things really work; the way they're seen from the true perspective. We see the smile on the fathers' face, and we know intuitively that the right thing was done. But what about the rest of the time? Other dying flowers? When will the time come that we will be able to forever see the fathers' smile?

   I hope and pray that the day comes soon. But until then, I'll rely on my faith. After all, Daddy always knows best.

(For the sake of honesty (and for those who don't get it) I must say that this story never happened. It is a product of my thinking.)
 

Saga Of A Birdie

 
   What's a bird? An easy question, I used to think. Ask anybody what a bird is and he'll tell you it's something that has feathers, wings, a beak, and all the other things that birds have in common. I still do think that a bird needs all those things to be considered a bird, but no-one would tell you that a bird is a bird even if it doesn't use its feet or wings, because it's just so unusual.

   But now I've officially changed my mind. A bird is a bird even if it can't use all the things G-d gave it. Moreover, I'd like to put it that a bird is a bird especially when it does not have these things. Here's why.

.   .   .

  
   Well, at first I didn't really notice it. I was too busy -on the run- and birds on the ground are a common sight to anybody. Neither was it of the type which I -as a nature lover- would take a second look at. Only after a few days I noticed that the same bird came every day to the berry bushes near the side door of the school, and looking to and fro to make sure there were no humans around, would quickly dart to that semi-open area where the berries were rotting, and make off with one.

   Then the question hit me: Why is there only one bird that is brazen enough to come collect some berries? Where are the others?

   The next time I saw it , I just stood there and watched. Its eyes were of the beseeching kind, like a beggar who asks for alms but is embarrassed to do so. After watching it snatch its' berry, I decided to follow it. And I did. I walked. It walked. I walked faster; it still walked. I ran; it ran. And then it hit me: Birds are supposed to fly!

   No longer did I feel a need to find out about the bird. It was all in that open, in one word: Crippled.

   Had I thought about it a little more, I probably would have realized that a flightless bird in its society is like a hand-less person in ours. Quite a handicap. And birds live in meaner world than us humans; there is no spoon-feeding you once you grow up. My bird would have to fend for itself. So much for the berry-eating manners of this bird - it was just not able to eat anything else.

   So fend for itself it did. It suffered humiliation from its more egotistic and soaring brothers, which was by now apparent to me by its ruffled feathers and stark eyes. But it was not discouraged, it would just have to take more drastic measures to survive.

   Now that I knew my birds predicament, I felt somewhat of a responsibility to help it out. But every time I'd approach, it would just run away to the nearest bush and hide. I felt for it, as it was not its fault; it had been taught to be scared of everything and everybody. It was alone. So I would try to leave it crumbs near the berry bush hoping it would eat them upon its next visit.

   After a while, a I stopped paying attention to my bird. Us humans can become insensitive to more emotional issues than this, and with time this too faded.

    Until one day I wondered: Where is that thing? Why didn't I see it make it make its dash for survival in already two weeks?

    Left to my own conclusions, it did not take long for me to surmise that it was not around anymore. It had battled the odds -for a while successfully- and then G-d must have said: "Good job, now it's time to take you back" - and then the cat got it.

    So now, when I think back at this strange event long gone, I wonder if I should have done more to help it out. Was watching nature unfold in its sometimes cruel form leave me stained as an accomplice of a villains deed? Or was it just providence that I witnessed what I did, and I am therefore not to blame?

    Say what you may, but to me one thing is certain: The one with the rusted feathers and defiant look, that's the bird I evermost loved; that's the bird I knew.

    And you can always tell me that maybe -just maybe- it learned to fly.