Life Is a Bird Flying Through a Room

What a simple analogy taught me about life, intuition, and the open air beyond

I recently had a conversation with my father-in-law that left me thinking about an analogy he shared on the shortness of life. I forgot if he said he read this somewhere, but he described life as a bird flying into a small bedroom through one window and, moments later, out another.

This powerful image has stayed with me for months and continues to have emotional impact. It was hard to put my finger on it, but there’s something about the physical action of the bird and its instinctual drive that captures something beyond simply saying and understanding that “life is short.” I wanted to explore it more in writing to satisfy my ongoing search for greater clarity and self-understanding.

Going back to the analogy, I imagine the bird flying through the open air before suddenly being drawn to the window for some reason. Are some birds curious, like cats? Is it a combination of instinct and chance? Or maybe it's seeking shelter or exploring a new path to resources.

This makes me think more about the bird's existence both before and after its journey through the room. It passes through this foreign, human-made space in just three seconds, but lives a much longer and broader life in the outside world, its natural habitat. It comes from the open air and returns to it. Hopefully, it thrives there for many years. Not implying that life outside is necessarily easy, but because it’s much bigger in scope and duration than its brief passage through the room. Maybe we, too, come from and return to a place that is more natural for us. A place where we can thrive and experience something on a greater scale, whatever that place and experience may be.

I imagined three possible scenarios. In the first, the bird effortlessly glides through the room without ever needing to flap its wings. It enters, makes a slight adjustment to its trajectory, maintains a straight path, and exits just as smoothly. It's completely composed and never misses a beat.

In the second scenario, the bird enters the room but flaps its wings a few times to slow itself while continuing to move forward. Maybe it's momentarily disoriented by the sudden transition from open air to enclosed, unfamiliar space and simply needs a moment to gather itself.

In the third scenario, the bird enters the room completely disoriented. It flaps frantically in circles, with dust and feathers flying everywhere, before finally perching atop the armoire, exhausted and confused. After taking a moment to assess things, it eventually flies out through the second window, or maybe even back through the first window it entered.

I think our lives can fall into these categories, and everything in between. The first scenario describes someone who moves lightly and intentionally through life: fully present, very fulfilled, and ultimately able to exit with composure. It's an idealized example because I think many of us fall somewhere between the second and third scenarios.

Personally, I relate most to the second scenario, although there have certainly been times in my life when I've flown frantically around the room in confusion, fear, and exhaustion. More recently, however, I find myself resembling the bird that occasionally slows down and even hovers for a moment. Those pauses give me the opportunity to regain my composure, quiet my mind, and listen to my intuition, which has become a trusted navigator.

One of the most important reminders this analogy has given me is to be fully present and grounded in the moment. At 49, I may be about halfway through my journey across that room. That doesn't mean I'm looking forward to my death. Rather, I am aware of that second window and quietly curious about the moment of transition when I pass through it.

I'm deeply connected to my life right now, especially to my wife, my son, and the love we share. I hope and am quietly confident that they'll be with me at my moment of transition, even though it will be difficult to leave them behind. But before I know it, that second window will be before me. As I look over my shoulder and see them following close behind, I'll be forever grateful for their love and support. I'll carry that love with me through the window and into the open air beyond.

So yes, I am looking forward to whatever’s out there and intend to explore that new territory. But I'll always remember the house I left behind. I'll return to it often, circling high above with eagle eyes, waiting for the moment they, too, emerge from that window.