the beating of her wings

So there we were, walking to Trader Joe's on our weekly grocery run. Came around the corner by Albertson's and saw a mama duck, trailing a little clutch of 10 or so, marching up the gutter beside the curb. There were four other people watching, just standing on the sidewalk. Two women had clearly been jogging; one guy had come out of his apartment. And then there we were. We stopped to watch, since Mama D was coming our way, and we didn't want to spook her. She decided right about then that she needed to get up onto the sidewalk and start cutting across the park (with another big, busu street and a another stretch of park between her and the little lake). She jumped up on the curb. At that point, we realized that these were not just ducklings, they were ducklings: like, brand new. Super tiny. The curb was twice their height.

In one (or in this case, eight) acts of animal athleticism, the ducklings leapt up and followed mama. And then there were two. And then...one. Nine cheeping babies on the curb. Mama knew it. She looked at her clutch, then squawked and came back to the curb. Baby cheeped at her. She jumped down. One of the others jumped after her, at which point all the humans groaned. "No, don't do that, don't jump back down--!" Mama jumped back up. Baby Jock followed. The little duckling who couldn't tried, failed, tried again.

This continued, as mama and spectators became more concerned, for another 5 or 6 feet of sidewalk. I was already moving toward Mama and baby. One of the guys watching told me to watch out! That mother duck will kick your ass! On cue, Mama flared her tail and spiked her head feathers and took a run at me, just so I understood that 6 feet from her baby was too close, nevermind I was a good distance into the street on a blind corner. Cars, fortunately, saw me. The other watchers were doing their part, too, to flag and signal to cars to make them slow down. Note: none of the ducks was anywhere near a car-zone. Nope. Just the human.

Another guy came up then, older man with a camera, and stood near me taking pictures. Still another guy ran up, carrying a folded Abercrombie and Fitch bag. He propped it against the curb, beside the ever more frantic and exhausted duckling. It promptly dashed under the bag, and away from it again. Perhaps the mostly naked models on the bag alarmed it. Perhaps it did not approve of the lingering Abercrombie smell coming off the bag. This is sarcasm; the duckling was just scared witless, and Mama had moved back to get the rest of her clutch onto the grass. She was still calling, baby was answering, but he just could. not. get. up.

I know the chances of a runt duckling's survival are poor. I know that the chances of his siblings surviving aren't good, either; there are coyotes, foxes, possums, raccoons, herons, big-ass frogs and turtles, bobcats, owls, and godds know what else over at the lake. There's a big street to cross before that, with more curbs. Nature has no pity on little helpless things; cars have even less.

Yeah. Well.

At this point, I decided a couple of things, one of which was this mama duck would not kick my ass, but she might scrape me up a little, and I could live with that. The other was, if I messed this up, I might end up with an orphan duckling. Well. I can keep the cats off the deck, right? Right. But I wasn't gonna mess up.

So I moved in--to pick up the bag, slide it under baby, lift him up an inch or so. As I was halfway to crouch, Mama launched. She flew right into my face, wings beating. I have been dive-bombed by red-wing blackbirds, had finches fluttering around my head, felt my parakeet's wingbeats as he landed on my shoulder. Her wings felt like sandpaper, or the sharp edge of index cards. I gotta say, I was impressed. The wings were powerful. I could feel the scrape on my cheek where she'd hit me.

Nous tells me she was maybe an inch from my nose with her beak, but I did not notice. When I saw her fly up, I turned my head, closed that eye, grabbed the bag, and backed up a step. I wasn't scared. No adrenaline. The baby was still stuck, and ducks don't have long sharp scary crow beaks, so...

I stepped in again. She made a move, and the guy with the camera took a step toward her. That was distraction enough. She turned to face him, and I slid the edge of the bag under the duckling. Lifted. He flapped, jumped--and finally, finally caught the edge with his little feet. He ran to Mama, who promptly spat a duck-expletive at me and took her clutch away, top duck-speed, into the grass and the park. There were some little "Yays!" from the bystanders. I returned the bag to its owner, and away we went.

I hope they all made it to the lake.

this is not the story of a born again yogi

So I started yoga reluctantly, because my pilates teacher was quitting and I needed something to do in its place and she said--oh, do yoga! You will love it.

So I did, and she was right. And here's why: for that 75 minutes, I am totally in the moment. I am not worrying about students, or how much grading I have, or that godsforsaken query letter I am supposed to be working on, or how guilty I feel because I haven't made much time for Swedish. There is something very... freeing... about that kind of concentration. Sure, sometimes it hurts it's challenging. But it's exhilarating, too. Probably all the breathing. I'm not always totally focused. Sometimes I notice the chick next to me with her 19 year old rubber limbs and no muscle strength. Or the chick over there who can't touch her damn toes and wtf? She's maybe 20! Or that woman, lord, who is wrapped in a knot and making it look easy and maybe, maybe, I can get another half...and...inch...into this twist....!

At which point I remind myself "let it go," and most of the time, I do. More of the time, now.
Yoga reminds me that no, that right hip Has Issues(tm), probably related to over-training and bad posture in martial arts years ago, and exacerbated by running (which has been largely replaced by the elliptical). That my elbows have nerve tweaks, and that while upward bow is possible, it may not be a good idea.  That  I am also not 20 any more, and I can't just muscle my way through the poses and trust that I'll heal by morning. I need to respect my body, and my limits, which are subject to change. A bad day is just a day. Let it go.

Yoga also reminds me that I am very, very lucky: my body is healthy, northern European-sturdy. That I am strong., and flexible, and that I can do the stronger variations of most of the asanas, most of the time.

But oh, the ones I can't do piss me off. My favorite yoga teacher told me (rather sternly) this afternoon that I have a "nice practice" and "if headstand is going to lead to injury, you don't need it." But I want it. And the badass arm balances. I want to be more than I imagined I could be, three years ago. I want to be more than I am, right now. I want headstand by 40. Let's see if I get it.