Michael's Story

Although I am uncertain if this story should go here, I do feel that it needs to be told. Actually, it is the memory of Jonathan that has brought me here.

At the convenience store yesterday, the clerk there - to whom I have always spoken kindly during my visits there - out of the blue and with her knowing really nothing of my pastimes, asked me if I ever go to the library or know of any good books to read. My first response, as I search through my memory thinking of what I could recommend to her that she might like and coming up short initially of answers, is that I would get back to her on that, that I would think of something and let her know.

After the short drive home and immediately glancing through my bookshelf, still coming up empty, my memory offered up a possibility: Jonathan Livingston Seagull. That would be perfect, I thought. Since she had told me of the two books she had read, or rather tried to read - one, a recommended story of Hinduism by the store owner, and the other, a sad story of loss about some younger person's search of their sexual identity - indeed Jonathan seemed like he would "fit the bill".

It has been years since I had read it and no longer possessed a copy, having given it away to some friend at the time who I thought it would benefit, so of course I had to ask Mr. Google. It pains me to admit it now, but as it seems I am often late for the "good stuff" (born too late to experience the sixties, too young to meet Jane Roberts and had only a brief correspondence with her husband before I fell into what some would call a "dark wind" period of my life and missed his passing) - admitting this freely, now, all because of that playful seagull and my memory of him, I have found this wonderful site, and thus discovered that there are many treasures written that still await me.

As it could come at perhaps no better time than this period in my life, with a currently refreshed state of mind and spirit, an intensity and focus to reach out for my idealizations and dreams I have so often ignored, searching and searching for something that I thought and feared I would never find: a place where my heart can open up, where Joy can come as it may, where tears can flow freely, and hope can be renewed. I am shaking as I type this, thinking of the world of possibilities that I can sense here. "Thrilled" doesn't describe it. More like, awed, yet humbled (but not too much, humorously speaking) mysteriously awed and more... a great wind to fill out the sails of my being.

As I stepped outside on that lovely afternoon, looking upwards, there were about fifteen or twenty very large birds with wings outspread, floating so high up in the air, drifting, drifting, moving along with the currents of a soft wind. As I write this I must admit again, I had never thought of Jonathan over the years; at that amazing flock I only stared, smiled, and wished them fulfillment and happiness. That wonderful flock of birds gradually drifted overhead to my direction, circling lazily, then finally disappearing from my view.

I did wonder if I would see any tricks in air, any playfulness that one of them might exhibit. Instead they just flew away, searching perhaps as I search still, seeking whatever they may seek as a rightful and proud creature in this universe. For that I am grateful.

Michael S.