In the cage . . .

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When is wing is bruised and his bosom sore
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core.
But a plea, that upward to heaven he flings--
I know why the caged bird sings.
from Sympathy by Paul Laurence Dunbar


Unless you've been hanging out at Crossroads recently for the Free journey, you have no clue why I am writing about a birdcage. Let's just say it's become a profound metaphor for things I don't like to do, namely connect with people on a deep level or get involved. And in many ways I've felt like Dunbar's caged bird over the course of the past weeks as I've struggled to embrace this concept of "free."

Mingo talked about "getting in someone's cage" -- and it's not something I aspire to do with anyone except Jay. And honestly, the way things have been going recently as we've both simultaneously embarked on this journey to be "free," I'm not sure I want to climb in his cage, either. Climbing in the cage takes too much energy; it's much safer to stay here on the outside instead of metaphorically beating one's wings against the bars of a cage in an effort to encounter freedom.

One of the most difficult aspects of the journey over the past couple of weeks is this notion of getting to know people I've never met and allowing those who are my friends to know me on another level. This isn't easy for me. In fact, it's difficult. It's hard. It's painful. It's any number of adjectives that symbolize agony. If you didn't know it already, I'm a closet introvert. I may look extroverted. I may seem outgoing. You might even think you know me . . . but you don't. Very few people know how difficult it is for me to talk to a group of anyone except teenagers in my classroom. Very few people in my life realize that I'd rather stay home than venture into public. I merely muster up motivation to make the trip weekly to our Free group, engaging in positive self-talk the entire trip. I'm determined to finally finish a journey. All six weeks of it.

What I REALLY want to do, though, is stay in my own cage -- alone.
. . .
A consignor asked my mom the other day how much weight I had lost after my surgery. Mom is rather protective of me, believing my journey is MY journey and my story is MY story. Unfortunately I've had someone in my life feel the need to broadcast to total strangers all the details of my gastric banding and it really hurts me that she doesn't understand how inappropriate her gossiping nature is. It hasn't afforded me the opportunity to control who was told and who was not about my decision to have this surgery. Now I've encountered a situation where a person is almost competitive in questioning about my weight loss because she has had the same surgery and apparently wants to "compare notes."

What I'm discovering firsthand is that not all band patients lose weight at the same rate or in the same way. We don't even experience the same problems post-surgery. Strangers feel invited to climb in my cage for various reasons -- usually all related to their own issues and insecurities. I've even encountered women who have said cruel, unkind words to me. And I've smiled sweetly and responded, then climbed into my cage to cry uncontrollably alone.

I don't like intruders in my cage.

So I'm thinking a lot about this cage thing that Mingo introduced. It's one thing to be invited in and another to barge in and then rattle the cage, especially when the songbird inside is beating her wings, desperately desiring freedom . . . true freedom.