The bird could leave anytime. But it didn’t.
For two years, it has lived inside the curve of a clay roof tile in front of our house.
It made its home before we even stepped into ours. Before the housewarming, before the first light filled these rooms.
There was no tree cut, no nest destroyed. Just an empty plot, open sky - until the walls rose, the roof settled, and the bird arrived.
No cage, no string, no reason to stay - except that it chose to.
Every morning, I watched it. At dawn, it stretched its wings, testing the wind, feeling the pull of the sky. And yet, it never left for long. It would soar high, tracing the air currents, only to return by sunset, perching in the same spot.
I often wondered why.
A bird should roam, shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t it follow the great invisible map in its bones, the one passed down through generations, guiding it to far-off places? But this bird didn’t. It stayed, as if this small space, this pocket of the world, was enough.
And I thought - maybe we’re not so different.
For two years, it has lived inside the curve of a clay roof tile in front of our house.
It made its home before we even stepped into ours. Before the housewarming, before the first light filled these rooms.
There was no tree cut, no nest destroyed. Just an empty plot, open sky - until the walls rose, the roof settled, and the bird arrived.
No cage, no string, no reason to stay - except that it chose to.
Every morning, I watched it. At dawn, it stretched its wings, testing the wind, feeling the pull of the sky. And yet, it never left for long. It would soar high, tracing the air currents, only to return by sunset, perching in the same spot.
I often wondered why.
A bird should roam, shouldn’t it? Shouldn’t it follow the great invisible map in its bones, the one passed down through generations, guiding it to far-off places? But this bird didn’t. It stayed, as if this small space, this pocket of the world, was enough.
And I thought - maybe we’re not so different.
The Pull and the Stillness
I’ve always felt the pull.
That deep, restless ache in my chest telling me to move, to change, to chase something unseen. Some people call it longing. Others call it purpose. I never had a name for it, only the feeling - like standing at the edge of a vast sky and knowing I was meant to fly.
But here I was, staying. Just like the bird.
One evening, as the sun melted into gold, I sat in front of the house, watching the bird perch on a beam below the roof tiles.
The wind ruffled its feathers, and for a moment, I thought - this time, maybe it will go.
But it didn’t.
Instead, after a long wait, its babies arrived.
And I asked it, not expecting an answer, Why do you stay?
Of course, the bird said nothing. It only tilted its head, looking at me as if I were the one who didn’t understand.
And maybe I didn’t.
Maybe it wasn’t about leaving or staying. Maybe it wasn’t about running toward something or running away. Maybe the bird wasn’t bound by the same questions that tied me in knots.
Maybe it just was.
That deep, restless ache in my chest telling me to move, to change, to chase something unseen. Some people call it longing. Others call it purpose. I never had a name for it, only the feeling - like standing at the edge of a vast sky and knowing I was meant to fly.
But here I was, staying. Just like the bird.
One evening, as the sun melted into gold, I sat in front of the house, watching the bird perch on a beam below the roof tiles.
The wind ruffled its feathers, and for a moment, I thought - this time, maybe it will go.
But it didn’t.
Instead, after a long wait, its babies arrived.
And I asked it, not expecting an answer, Why do you stay?
Of course, the bird said nothing. It only tilted its head, looking at me as if I were the one who didn’t understand.
And maybe I didn’t.
Maybe it wasn’t about leaving or staying. Maybe it wasn’t about running toward something or running away. Maybe the bird wasn’t bound by the same questions that tied me in knots.
Maybe it just was.
The Map That Isn’t There
We like to believe that birds have a map, a secret knowledge of where to go. We say they follow the stars, the wind, the magnetic pull of the earth. But maybe it’s not a map at all. Maybe it’s just trust.
Maybe they go because they feel the moment is right.
Maybe they stay for the same reason.
And maybe that’s what we’re missing.
We want signs. We want guarantees. We want to know that if we take flight, there will be land on the other side. But the bird doesn’t need proof. It flies because it knows how to move with the sky.
And when it stays, it’s not because it’s afraid. It’s because this place, this moment, is enough.
Maybe they go because they feel the moment is right.
Maybe they stay for the same reason.
And maybe that’s what we’re missing.
We want signs. We want guarantees. We want to know that if we take flight, there will be land on the other side. But the bird doesn’t need proof. It flies because it knows how to move with the sky.
And when it stays, it’s not because it’s afraid. It’s because this place, this moment, is enough.
The Art of Living
We spend our lives searching for the right place, the right moment, the right purpose. But what if it’s not about finding? What if it’s about being?
The bird doesn’t ask if it’s doing life correctly. It doesn’t measure its journey in miles. It doesn’t count how far it’s gone or how long it has stayed.
It just lives.
It moves when the wind calls. It stays when the ground feels right.
And in that, there is art.
Not the kind framed in galleries, but the kind that breathes - the art of existing fully, of trusting the process, of knowing that whether we are soaring or standing still, we are exactly where we need to be.
The bird doesn’t ask if it’s doing life correctly. It doesn’t measure its journey in miles. It doesn’t count how far it’s gone or how long it has stayed.
It just lives.
It moves when the wind calls. It stays when the ground feels right.
And in that, there is art.
Not the kind framed in galleries, but the kind that breathes - the art of existing fully, of trusting the process, of knowing that whether we are soaring or standing still, we are exactly where we need to be.
That night, under a sky full of stars, I sat with that thought.
The bird stayed. And so did I.
Not because we had to.
Because, for now, it was enough.