What it means for a child to be born in an egg.
In as much as this is true, every life destined for a greater purpose must begin with a sign that picks the one, from many.
A child born from an egg, which is the most usual thing for a dinosaur pup, is destined for something unusual. In the beginning, no one can know, the least of all the child himself, what that destined thing is.
It is only when one day, the child wakes up and finds feathers growing in his armpits, while all his peers are growing pubescent hair, that he begins to suspect that the story about his birth may have connection to his present conundrum. And what does a teenager do when he finds that he is different from others? He tries to hide that part of himself because he does not welcome the uncertainty that comes with being unusual. He fears for himself.
He does what he must. He steals dad’s tweezers, locks himself in the bathroom, and plucks the feathers into a bag. When night comes, he goes to the backyard and buries the unmentionable part of himself in the ground. And when the morning comes, the feathers are scattered all over the lawn, but, to his relief, his parents think a racoon had gotten its hands on a chicken in the neighborhood, despite the fact that the feathers look nothing like those from chickens.
He does what he feels, which is fear. He plucks and plucks, but they keep coming back in numbers, such that, what used to be a plucking every month was becoming a chore every week. Every other day. Then every day.
That part of himself, which had him born in an egg and now growing feathers, is patient and graceful. Like the sun, with warmth, sheds the coat off a stranger, that egg-feathery part of himself, with love, urges the man to accept what is his own individual reality.
One morning, as the teenager finally graduates, the young man wakes up and feels a prickly feather budding from his face. It is time, and he succumbs to the reality of his feathery condition. He knows he cannot fit in anymore, and leaves home and civilization, into the wilderness of mountains, where he alone laments his feather-growing self.
Then, meditating upon the egg and the feathers, he comes to a vision. In it, the sky is a muse, and in the vast blueness of its sonorous eyes, there are birds, which fly quite unlike any other bird he had seen. Feverish and confused, he falls asleep, in which the strangeness of those birds keep him awake, even as he is dreaming. His bones ache, and the final metamorphosis is upon the wretched creature.
In the morning, the wind blows from the sun. All is clear to him – the why of eggs and feathers- the lightness and brightness of his being – the ingenuity of forgiveness and love.
He is gratefully whole, for the first time in his life, because of the single realization of what he is.
He is riding the wind.