Feathers of Life

Feathers, not the birds they fall off of, but the feathers themselves hold a mysterious, wonderful meaning to me that goes overlooked by so many. Every day, feathers are seen as a disease carrying vexation, but to me feathers are my life symbolized in an object. To the normal individual, all they see is just an ordinary feather, but I see so much more than a simple feather. One feather can be found in some of the most important and special events throughout the last ten years of my life. A feather has been in my life at the lowest points in my life, but a feather has also been there in some of the best moments of my life as well. Feathers are a gift from God, and shouldn't be seen as diseased, but as divine. I wouldn't have been able to learn some of the most influential and amazing lessons in my life without feathers.

            In order to convey the true meaning of feathers, I have to go back to my middle school years, seventh grade to be exact. Seventh grade is a rough year for anyone and I was no exception to that middle school year. Honestly, my experience was worse than the usual seventh grade student. If you saw me walking down the halls of Pine Mountain, you would see a girl with short, blonde hair, which was usually pulled back in a ponytail, and always wore t-shirts that were two sizes too big. My self-esteem was nonexistent, and my number of friends could be counted on one hand. It’s safe to say that I was depressed, but what was the reason my middle school experience could be consider one of Dante’s Seven Layers of Hell?

            A group of boys, in my social studies class, verbally abused me daily for their own personal entertainment. They stole all of the little self-confidence I had, and drove me directly into a deep depression. Name after name, I moved closer to the edge. Joke after joke, I could see the black pit was only one step from free falling. I was only one more name and one more joke from tumbling over the edge. All it took was just one more word from them and I was gone.

            On the weekends, the couch had become my home and the remote had become an extension of my hand. As usual, I flipped through the channels hoping for a movie that would kill a few hours of my dull, disheartening life. I wasn’t let down. A movie I had never seen before came on either TNT or USA. I can’t remember which channel it was. The movie was Forrest Gump. I never expected such a humorous, at least for the common history buff, movie to be such a major turnaround for me in my own life. This movie pulled me from the edge of the black pit that my toes were wiggling over the edge of. The character, Forrest Gump, lived a tough childhood. He was bullied just like I was being bullied. The main symbol of the movie is what hit me the hardest. The small, white feather, floating through the air, symbolizing how life goes on is something I took to heart. If I hadn’t been on the couch, channel surfing for a movie, I wouldn’t have had my life touched by that small, white feather.

            The lowest point of my life, there was a feather, but there have been feathers in some of the best times of my life as well. As the small, white feather symbolized, my life moved on. Those boys who tried to wreck my life in middle school were now nothing but little boys to me now.  My life had improved and I grew up. There are two very important people in my life that never let me forget that, my Grandma and Grandpa. I looked forward to their visit every year. I always knew exactly what to expect from them when they arrived.

            My grandma, who is my mom’s mom, is about 4’10”, but don’t let her size fool you. She can swear like a sailor and burp louder than a banshee. She’s always been very vocal about her opinions, which could be due to her New York background, but it’s always entertaining for me to see. Her arrival is always the same. She’ll come in, give us all hugs and kisses and proceeds to say, “Diane, [my mom] your house is just beautiful, just beautiful!” She always states beautiful with such an annunciation that sounds more like, “BEE-U-TEE-FUL.” However, soon after her arrival, the “constructive” criticism would start. “Diane, the kitchen floors are sticky. What cleaner have you been using?” or “Caroline, [my younger sister] you are so beautiful, but you’re eye makeup is really dark. You should do your eye makeup more like Samantha.” We all love grandma, even when she does her so-called constructive criticism. At the end of the day, we all know she’s only trying to help.

            When grandma took a break from “helping” us improve our lifestyle, I would go sit on the floor, next to the lazy boy grandpa would sit in. Most of the time he would be watching a movie ON Demand, or trying to watch the newest boxing match, but if I was lucky, he would take out his banjo. This was always the best part of their visit. If I close my eyes I can still hear the twang of the plucked strings. I can still see my grandpa’s usual outfit of jeans, a plaid, button up shirt, and a baseball cap. I especially remember his baseball caps.

            The hat I remember the most is his Native American Pride hat with the chief in a headdress full of feather on it. My grandpa was part Black Foot Indian, although he’s not my biological grandpa, I considered him blood. He was the only grandpa I ever knew, and as far as genetics is concerned, they can believe whatever they wanted, but I know what’s in my heart. I believe family is the people who love you the most and not what is on a genetic test. My grandpa is and always will be a part of me, and he is the warrior chief with the headdress full of feathers.

            Thanksgiving of my junior year of high school the tables had turned. Instead of Grandma and Grandpa coming to visit us in Georgia, my family packed up the car and made the seven hour drive to Zephyrhills, Florida. At the time, I never knew how bitter sweet this visit was going to be. I spent the whole trip sitting and talking with both of my grandparents, and soaking up every moment with them. My grandma is an artist and she had taken out her watercolor paints to give the grandkids something to do.  

            Little did she know watercolor soon became my passion. When I have a brush in my hand the whole world around me disappears. I go to my own world, where all the anxiety and stress of the real world doesn’t exist. I can still remember the first painting I ever did. It was that Thanksgiving at my grandma’s house. In the corner of the room, next to the TV, she had a pot with peacock feathers sticking out of it. I took one of the feathers out of the pot and laid it on the table next to where I was all set up to paint. I picked up the brush and pushed the purples, blues, greens, and gold across the paper. Soon enough I had finished my first painting, a peacock feather.

            It’s funny to think that a feather can make such significant changes in my life, but it happened. I know feathers are a strange thing to have a connection to, but it teaches us that it doesn’t matter how small or insignificant something might seem, it can still make a difference in our lives. God made everything for a reason. Everything in this world is significant because the Lord our God made everything around us. He embodies, loves and cherishes everything thing and we should all strive to do that as well. For me, it only took some feathers to realize how powerful, wonderful, and divine my God is. All it takes in just one thing to make a change in your life, even something as small as a feather.