How to admire the free-flying wings of others… when yours feel clipped

Sometimes, when it feels like my wings are clipped and I look wistfully at the exciting lives of others, I remember Mexico.

I’d been there a few weeks when a new friend shared how she’d heard someone describe me while they watched me saunter down the patchy slope of dry grass, away from the language centre.

‘There’s the new girl I was telling you about. The English girl who speaks Spanish-from-Spain with a French accent!’ (French had been my working language for the previous three years, my Spanish had some fighting back to do).

They would have seen me set off confidently, backpack strapped, ready for my next adventure. I would stride towards the narrow village lanes to catch the rickety old bus, holding my nerve as I approached packs of wild dogs who, terrifying though they appeared, would scatter as soon as I reached them.

Mostly, these people would have seen I was happy.

Happy, because I knew whoever I was going to work with in the coming week would be some version of incredible: good, fun, caring, intelligent, creative…or all of the above.

How did I know? Because Ann, the centre manager-cum-mother, told me.

Every time I set off to work on a new project, Ann would enthuse about the people I’d be working with, telling me at least one uniquely positive thing about them.

‘Oh yes!’ she would exclaim when I mentioned whose project I was visiting, ‘She is the smartest person I’ve ever met. You’ll love her!’

Or… ‘Those two have the best ideas, so creative! You’ll thrive working with them!’

Or… ‘That family! They have such great kids. You’ll have a wonderful time.’

Or… ‘Those guys? They’re just all-round good people!’

Her positivity meant I began each new assignment expecting the absolute best of my colleagues…and I was never disappointed.

At first, I just thought it was a bright and breezy organisation, one big happy family where everyone got on all the time without fail. Mostly, it genuinely was. But of course, as time went by, I overheard conversations which let leak that – reassuringly - these people were humans like the rest of us. Of course, they had their occasional bickers and slights. Nothing major, but they did get offended and sometimes a touch competitive. Maybe feathers were ruffled by the quicker progress of others.

And then there was Ann who served others tirelessly, possibly thanklessly at times. Who was at the heart of everything and knew all the secrets. Who could have easily used that ‘knowing’ to let slip the character-failings of others.

To some, her work 'back at base', might have looked less exciting than the project work in remote villages. Did she ever feel like her wings were clipped?

I don’t think so.

I can’t speak for her, but she seemed to know she was in the right place. She chose to speak kindness into every situation, maybe not because she always felt it, but because she knew it was right.

Of all the things I learned in Mexico, that was the thing. Not the fancy computer software. Not the fascinating cultural tidbits. Not the snippets of linguistics, culinary secrets or the whole new brand of Spanish vocab.

No, it was the no-nonsense goodness of one woman, breathing hope. Celebrating others and weeping with those who wept.

And I cringe, because all these years on, I know I haven’t always made that choice myself. I’ve wanted the excitement, the kudos. I have struggled when I didn’t get it. I’ve envied the status of others and tried to shake imaginary clips from my wings when my progress slowed to an embarrassing crawl.

It can be hard to celebrate the success of those around you when your pile seems small. Difficult to admire the free-flying wings of others, when yours feel clipped. But sometimes, this is what we need to do.

Envy wriggles in when we think others are progressing faster than us in whatever way; when their work is being admired and applauded more than ours. When one of the language projects completed a section, people far and wide would celebrate the win. But did they ever celebrate her stopping to make yet another cup of coffee for a stressed colleague? Dropping everything to listen? Cleaning a house for some newcomers or inviting all the village families in to watch a film and eat popcorn on a Saturday night? What she was doing was equally valuable, who knows, in some ways, more so. And thankfully, she knew it. Everyone knew it.

Her wings weren’t clipped. Quite the opposite.

She knew who she was and this knowing left her gloriously free to spread positivity and encouragement as liberally and generously as she liked.

Of course, there will be times in life when our wings seem to be clipped, when we feel like we’re looking in on the exciting lives of others, watching from the outside. Seeing them fly.

It's hard.

Really hard at times. I won't pretend it's not.

I was reminded of this in a small yet sharp way when a sunshiny Saturday full of plans for simple joy was hijacked and replaced with another 12 hours in a hospital room. And it's true that in recent months, our family situation has grounded us in every way. It would be easy to crane our necks and imagine clipped wings on our backs. It would be easy to gaze wistfully at those flying above us. Rather than feeling restricted, however, maybe we can see it as a space to rest and recuperate before we fly again. Maybe we can slowly accept the place we find ourselves and, within it, choose both to embrace the needs of others and to celebrate their wins.

Here on the ground, we have received more love and care than we knew possible. Many times, it has restored me. Maybe, from this quiet place of rest and waiting-for-life-to-happen, we can take deep breaths and appreciate the beauty of what we do have.

Because really, maybe our wings aren’t clipped at all. I don’t think they are.

Maybe they are simply resting, ready to cover one another when needed.

'Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.'

(1 Thessalonians 5:11)