It's all right, take your time

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

It's my daughter Lauren's analogy, not mine.

"I don't know what to write for New Year's," I told her.

"Write about being the last bird," she said.

I knew instantly what she meant. The last bird. The one struggling to keep up with all the rest who fly so effortlessly in formation, and zig-zag from left to right as smoothly as a singer climbs and descends a scale.

All except the last bird. He's usually off on a tree catching his breath. He's usually meandering to the left when the rest of the gang has veered right. He's usually struggling to keep up, like the last dancer in a chorus line. He isn't committed enough; he isn't dedicated. He's like the youngest Fighting Sullivan, always screaming "Hey, guys, wait for me."

"When you're watching birds fly, which do you most identify with?" my daughter asked.

The last bird, of course. The straggler who can't seem to get his act straight.

"Isn't that amazing," she said. "So do I."

All the other birds seem to know what they're doing, seem connected by some invisible thread. There they are swooping down on a telephone line, landing and sitting still as stuffed birds, all but the last one who comes huffing and puffing in.

There they are riding some invisible roller coaster, up and down the sky, in blissful unison, all except for the last, which bobs along on some erratic course of it own.

I imagine this bird yearns to keep up. I imagine he berates himself for not being as disciplined as the rest. I imagine he gives himself morning pep talks, saying things like, "Okay, it's a new day. Today you will fly as fast as you can. Today you will keep your eyes focused on what's in front of you. Today you will not go off chasing rainbows. You will do what's expected."

But then something diverts him. An old friend is perched on a tree and he detours a bit to talk; something pokes out of what should be rock, something green and leggy and he stops to inspect. He hears wind rushing by, smells the fragrance of a rain-soaked field, tastes the cold of a winter's day. He pauses, lingers, inhales, absorbs, enjoys.

What's everyone in such a rush for anyway, the last bird thinks. Everyone is so purposeful, poised, punctual, like nuns at vespers, like men carrying briefcases. But is this poise necessary? What is its purpose? To get where they're going faster? To keep everyone together? To follow the leader now and forever?

Now and forever, it's what we do: Follow the leader. Rush. Race. Hurry. Set goals. Set limits. That's what we're doing now. That's what New Year's and New Year's resolutions are really about.

Assessing. Realigning. Promising to do more. Standing on the mark and saying, ready, set, go. Vowing to be, if not a leader in this new year, at least one of the birds who flies straight, who stays his course.

To stay the course I must exercise more and read a book a week and answer the mail when it arrives and write thank-you notes and send birthday cards on time (no more belated for me) and cook once in a while and balance my checkbook and fold the clothes when the dryer buzzes and not wait until December to begin Christmas shopping.

This is what I think I should do. These are the resolutions I always make.

And never keep.

Because I am the last bird. Because I dally. Because I daydream. Because life lures and I follow. Not all the time, of course, but sometimes.

Maybe it's necessary to be last sometimes, to slow down, to look around, to enjoy, to set your own pace. In the end, all the birds arrive at the same place anyway. Eventually, even the last bird catches up. So why not linger a little doing the things you most enjoy? Why not look around and delight in this trip called life instead of focusing on some imposed destination?