At a nature writing workshop, I confessed I didn’t like birds. They can prey onto a head. Their beaks are pointy, and they make weird noises. They seem so unclean. It’s nice to see them in the sky with wings. I like to fly. I like to get on airplanes. Sometimes, when I run, I put my arms out.

Birds can peck at things, like my grandfather pecked away at my feelings and my innocence when I was small, and even in my teen years. He was a birdwatcher. He had all kinds of bird books and lived in the woods with his wife, my grandma, who was mouse-like, following him with her arms and hands and legs in her downright posture.

I live within my cells. The hypnotherapist I work with takes me deep while I nest into my room. We first catch up on Zoom, and then, on the phone, after moving to my bedroom, with my eyes closed, she’s able to transport me. She helps me find my angel, with enormous wings, who takes me to fine places. I float on a cloud. Sometimes I resort to the creek on the farm where I grew up, where I used to visit frogs. I go low then high, where I find my spirits. She tells me they are me. I find my aunt, my uncle, dad, my grandpa, my one former therapist who jumped from a high-rise.