It was a warm summer day, with a clear sky and a gentle breeze. The chirping of birds filled the air. Jill Turner saw and heard none of this. She walked at a steady pace, gazing at the path in front of her. Lost in thought, she trudged along. She was thinking about the topic of her essay, and she thought about the title for the hundredth time. What is the Meaning of Being? Indeed, she wondered, what is the point of it all? Why should I bother to finish this essay, or to finish this Masters degree, or to do anything at all? And why should I be doing this, of all days, on a Sunday?
The doubting had come upon her suddenly and inexplicably. Once it had taken hold of her, it wouldn’t let go. Her friends and some of the more perceptive of her instructors were worried about her. None of them knew what was bothering her, but they all knew that it was something serious.
Jill made her way down the path to the side door of the philosophy building, took out her key and let herself in. The building had that dead feeling that she dreaded so much. The door swung shut behind her, and she stopped. What is the meaning of being? She looked down the hallway, focusing on the door to the department library. Why bother to go there, to read the books and the passages, to write this essay? She stood there, motionless, for some time. She turned and walked back to the door, reaching out for the doorknob. She could open the door, walk out and forget all this nonsense.
Her hand dropped from the doorknob and fell to her side. Slowly, she moved toward the library. She unlocked the door and went inside.
Mechanically, she took from the shelves the books and journals she needed, placed them on the table in front of her, took out her pen and writing pad. She leaned back in the chair and folded her arms. She stared at nothing and time drifted by.
The sound of fluttering broke her from her reverie. She turned around to face the stacks. Jill strained her ears. She heard outdoor sounds through an open window: people talking and laughing, cars driving, birds singing. But the library was absolutely silent. Then she heard the fluttering again. Curious, she stepped out from the chair and listened hard. Again fluttering, coming from the back of the room. Noiselessly, she tiptoed down the aisle between the stacks of books. This time she both saw and heard.
It was a tiny bird, perched on an empty place between books on one the shelves, trapped in this room. For a while she simply stood and watched the bird. Suddenly, it lifted off and disappeared.
Then something happened inside Jill. She felt butterflies in her stomach. "Please," she whispered, "please let me help this bird." She walked quietly down to the end of the aisle. She searched for the bird. She heard it again and knew she was close. Looking down the next aisle she spotted the poor creature, set on an empty spot on one of the shelves.
She approached ever so slowly, but the bird took flight and disappeared over the stack, near the wall with the open window. Jill followed. "Hello," she cooed. "Please let me help you. I won’t hurt you." The bird tilted its head and watched her approach. Jill put her hands together, palms up, and spoke again. "Here. Come here. I’ll let you out. You can trust me."
She inched her way, held her breath, and found her open palms just below the bird. "Here. Come here." Jill felt tiny beads of perspiration on the forehead, and noticed that her heart was beating fast.
She waited.
The bird looked at her, then at her palms.
It stepped into her hands.
She walked agonizingly slowly toward the window. It was tilted with the top inward, and she moved her hands, the bird safely nestled in her palms, toward the gap.
"There!" she whispered. "Now you can go."
The bird looked up at her, then tilted its head toward the outside air, then back to Jill. It stood silently, looking at her, for what seemed like a very long time. Then the bird took flight, and rose through the air to freedom.
Jill walked back to the table, sat, picked up her pen. She started to write, a small smile fixed on her lips.
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