Several weeks ago I reached about to my friend, J.C. Nelson, whose children are slightly older than my own as I looked for advice on what to do with my teenager who is struggling to decide what to do after high school. J.C. sent a beautiful insight about crows, and I’m sharing it today with J.C.’s permission:
You hear about the successes. You hear about the ones who graduate at sixteen with two degrees. You hear about the eagles.
You know what you don’t hear about?
The crows.
Crows get too large for their nests and have to spend time on the ground. They wobble and fly into bushes and buildings and today one got into our lobby and discovered that sixteen glass columns is basically for crows. Crow young leave the nest and barely survive the fall and pick themselves up and are muddy, wet, and in a foul mood.
But crows have an advantage. Their family knows they’re going to fall and they gather around nearby and encourage, protect, and help the young crow until at last it manages to get that throw-yourself-at-the-ground-
Crows are smart. Really smart. They understand currency exchange. They make sacrifices for their mates. They hold grudges and take vengeance and go for help when little Crimminy has fallen into the well.
Eldest might wobble. She might fall, she might even wind up a bit bloody and with feathers floating down around her and a decidedly dazed look, or she might soar.
That’s not on you.
Your job is to be the crows that gather around and say “Here’s a chunk of rotten squirrel to fill your belly, and your dad is off cawing at a sketchy looking bag to make sure it doesn’t threaten you. Now get up and flap. And get up and flap again. And again.”
And at last, they’ll take flight.
I like crows better than eagles anyway.