by

Bowie Bluebird

It’s the 8th day of the New Year and I’m behind. Behind in responding to comments. Behind in writing blog posts. Behind in reading blog posts. My Christmas decorations are still happily shining and my sink is full of dishes.

I share this because there’s a tendency this time of year to feel like you have to hit the ground running. January has to be YOUR month to get all the things done and to set into motion all the ways you wish to make your life better. It’s all a lie. Like so many untruths we tell ourselves, it’s just another example of perfectionism making us miserable.

Don’t let it.

I’ve chosen Movement as my word of the year. Any forward momentum toward my goals will be considered a success. No, I’ve not done much blogging, but I did take a trip to Tahoe and my photography heart got to dance in the snow. No, I’ve not done much cleaning of my house, but I’ve written a poem and short story in my journal every day this year so far. Movement. Like water over stones. It all matters.

If you’ve been around here a minute, you’ll know I have a deep love for David Bowie. Today would be his 77th birthday and last night I dreamed I was in his Lazarus music video. I was under the bed reaching my hand out to him. I woke and wrote this poem and a small flash fiction in his honor. I hope you enjoy them. They aren’t what I had planned to post but I’m learning to let my creativity go where it wants to.

Movement.

Flying

shadow fingertips
touch feather blankets
flutter free

like bluebirds racing sunlight
like bare branches in a breeze
like tomorrows that don’t come

it’s just like you to leave us
quick as lightning
moonman mornings
starlight singings

fly free toward me

One who moves

I don’t want him to call me his bluebird one last time, although he does it anyway in a raspy voice I barely recognize. It matters to him, but I refuse sentimentality. I suppose it’s my way of fighting back. I know he understands.

“Time loops around,” I whisper when his heart stops.

Someone screams. Someone else runs to tell the people waiting on the mountain. Or maybe nobody is here at all except me. I wipe his eyes with the damp hem of my dress. I clean his face of tears, but the ones on my face are dry now.

He’s not gone, I yell to those wailing and screaming, but maybe the certainty he gave me at the end was only for me. He was fond of parting gifts. A lifetime of moon whispering, hip swaying, star gazing, and half-smiles don’t disappear. Not fully.

He’s writing everything down in a notebook beside the river while I wade up to my knees in the cool lapping water. Geese loudly scream out for attention, but I don’t take my eyes off his pen. Rocks beneath my toes are covered in slimy moss and they sing to me. The sky above is as blue as his right eye, maybe not even as blue as that. Clouds find a way to shift. Moving toward him, like we all do. Like I want to do right now.

Our years have now become days. We change nothing. We do nothing different. For certainty and love requires surrender to the forces of nature. A deer walks into the water and stands near me drinking loudly. Its side constricts and contracts—a life that does not care who we are because we are just like it. One who drinks. One who moves. One who watches the sky and feels the earth.

The pen stops and he looks at me over his notebook and perhaps he’s smiling. I can’t tell because the sun has burst through the dancing clouds and turned him into a being a light. “Free,” I think I hear him say, and just like the bluebird he takes flight. His wings sound like music.

*All photos were taken and edited by me.

44 thoughts on “Bowie Bluebird”

  3. Don’t know the sequence, image to words. Don’t care. The threads between them, the first and last especially, are more intense than merely strong. Magnetic. That would be a good word here. Attracting.

    That first and poem, yes, where we fly is between earth and moon. Exactly precisely that, literal, figurative. Yea, brilliant observation

    That last picture and story, my lord Bridgette, you did a beautiful thing showing and saying. You caught my breath with that photo alone. That is what flight looks like and where it comes from. You have a gift for story Bridgette.

    Thank you.

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    • Thank you so much Neil for seeing this as I wanted it to be seen—as a sequence of photos and words. I’ve shared a few of those photos before but they just fit here again. They wanted to be paired together.

      I think the short writing piece is about saying goodbye to everyone I’ve lost, not just Bowie. How wonderful it is to image our souls taking flight.

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  6. Excellent photography. Wonderful Bowie Bluebird, I like these pic. Very nice words written in. I much like!
    “shadow fingertips
    touch feather blankets
    flutter free

    like bluebirds racing sunlight
    like bare branches in a breeze
    like tomorrows that don’t come

    it’s just like you to leave us
    quick as lightning
    moonman mornings
    starlight signings “!
    The sun has burst through the dancing clouds and turned him into a being a light. “Free,” I think I hear him say, and just like the bluebird he takes flight. His wings sound like music! What great & really your think & written its! What lovely capture the last one pic. You have a lots of knowledge & experience. You are a great writer & photography! You always write new topic & New photography.
    Thanks!

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  8. This was such an inspiring read, Bridgette! ❤ Lovely tribute to Bowie & so true what you say about celebrating the small victories – 'Like water over stones. It all matters.' 😀 Beautifully written!

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  9. Bridgette, A touching tribute to one of the greats, a heart that dreams is a heart that lives, it seeks out beauty and disguards malice, opening up worlds that are special to us. Let the bluebird take you under his wing and gently float into the year. Enjoy 2024 and let your imagination grow❤️

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    • Oh, I love this! “Let the bluebird take you under his wing and gently float into the new year.” You’ve inspired me to print out my bluebird photo and write those words beneath it—fits so well with a year dedicated to movement. Thank you.

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  13. What does it mean when you see a bluebird?

    Bluebird Meaning and Symbolism
    Some believe the bluebird is a symbol of joy and hope; others, that good news will be arriving soon. Others still think that bluebirds represent a connection between the living and those who have passed away.

    Synchronicity or just the Devine remaining anonymous? Happy New Year, Dear Friend.

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    • I was wondering what it might mean, Penny. Thank you. It feels like it could be a little of all of those things coming together to guide me as the year begins. Happy New Year to you as well!

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