In a golden cage

White bird, just sits in her cage, growing old... white bird must fly, or she will die. 

I first heard White Bird when I was 10 or 11. I remember how old I was because we were all at my cousin's place for Easter, and my wheelchair-bound grandmother was there. My cousin was living (in sin, by some standards) with her boyfriend; his record collection was unlike any I'd ever seen and he had the stereo sound to go with it.

The sound on that system was crisp and clear with every vocal and violin intonation distinctly separate from the rest of the music. The song was an instant favorite for reasons that at the time would have been unclear. It was rare and unusual - and a little bit strange. Beautiful, yet somewhat disturbing, melancholy yet hopeful -visceral feelings not necessarily conscious. My friends didn't know it. It wasn't in regular radio rotation. So for years after that first moment, when I'd hear it on the local AM station, I'd tell myself it would be an unusually good day.

A couple years later, a handsome Vietnam vet moved in down the street. He'd stand in his doorway, dark eyes watching me pass, his bearded mouth drawing on a cigarette. When he invited me in to check out his record collection, I was smitten. He had a copy of It's a Beautiful Day, and a decent sounding stereo. It was on his porch I tried my first cigarette and experienced my first French kiss.

And still, the song stayed with me. I'm only just realizing this: those lyrics could have been prophetic for me.

While I was the apple of my grandfather's eye, I was a thorn in my grandmother's side. At least in our shared years together, she was mean, miserable and a martyr. She built her own impenetrable cage and grew old prematurely. My mother, absorbing my grandmother's guilt, created a cage of her own. She, too, grew old prematurely.

The leaves blow across the long black road, to the darkened sky in its rage. Both my grandmother and my mother were angry, unwitting victims, and my mother, so very alone. Now, I can't help but think of my mom when I hear that song. And still I tell myself it's going to be a good day.

My own cage began early, from my need for approval or staying invisible, to an over-the-top rebellion throughout my teens - an expression of a deep anger and shame I didn't understand. That early stereo was also my first introduction to Frank Zappa and Dinah-Moe Humm, which a few years later, could have been my anthem... Just get me wasted and you're halfway there; when my mind's messed up, my body don't care. 

But a perpetual need to not settle, to push, to somehow be different, kept me from ever locking that cage door. While the infrastructure was there - it was familiar and safe - I recognized it was a place I didn't want to be. It has taken ongoing courage, self-evaluation, painful experiences, conscious effort and shifting my beliefs about myself and what I'm worth. And, I believe, a lot of grace and gratitude. The skeleton remains as a reminder, but I have no desire to visit that place.

The song has recently reappeared as part of my interior sound track. As I dive deep into the coaching experience, I am acknowledging my own progress, and noticing how many of us create cages for ourselves that we're hard-pressed to escape. How many of us don't realize there's a way out, that the door isn't locked, or that we're really in charge of that lock? Cages can take many forms and shapes, and while, yes, we can be victimized, we largely create our own cages. Usually unconsciously. Mostly unwittingly.

We don't have to stay there. There's a way out. And it doesn't have to be hard.

The sunsets come, the sunsets go, the clouds pile high, the air moves slow. And the young bird's eyes do always know, she must fly, she must fly, she must fly. 

This song is still my queue to have "a beautiful day." Perhaps now for different reasons.