Today I was taking my walk, which is something I try to do daily, but generally manage about 5 times a week. Staying fit is motivation, but hey, step counters are even more motivating… just one more step and I am closer to 15,000. Ok so I’m goal oriented – don’t judge. I digress. So on my walk through the desert neighborhood I saw a family of Gambel’s Quail. This is nothing new; they populate the entire area where I live. If you’ve never seen one they run and run, as if panic-stricken by something behind them. And the little topknot on their head bobs back and forth as they lean into the direction they’re going. It’s fairly hilarious if you’ve never seen it. It’s almost as if the birds have forgotten that they know how to fly.
Anyway, to make a long story short, a family of quail went running across the street in front of me. They came tearing out from behind a saguaro and ran hell bent for leather into the prickly pear on the other side of the road, running like the pavement was 200 degrees (which it was), running like a monster was chasing them (which it wasn’t), running like the wind (of which there was none). Except one. One young bird. It hesitated, it bobbed up and down, it squeaked and fluttered. It finally flew across the road… something you don’t see everyday. I said, “Well, it’s about time one of you remembered you could fly!” And a manuscript began to unfold in my head. One little quail that always said, “Why don’t we fly?”
“But Why Don’t We Fly?” became another book on the long list. I get some ridicule for creativeness and enthusiasm that closely resembles that of a child. To that I say:
The creative adult is the child that survived – and sometimes at great odds.