an invitation
to be more Pheasant
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
A pair of Pheasants have, joyously, made our garden their home. We’d heard them for weeks, their squawks getting closer and closer until one morning, there they were; she, hesitant in the long grass, he walking boldly across the lawn. Now, whenever the Pheasants are home, we move differently. They insist a slower pace. If we rush from the office into the house they will spook, whereas when we walk slowly, announcing ourselves with a polite cough as we amble back and forth, they simply lift a head in acknowledgement before returning to their work of locating whatever seeds the Crows and Magpies have overlooked.
The change of pace is a welcome blessing. Too often I instinctively bend to the sense of urgency which the modern world so persistently asserts. Over and again I abandon my naturally glacial pace in attempt to fall into step with the hurried beat of the capitalist drum. I suppose I have been programmed to believe that failure lies wait in the unhurried periphery, in the slow moving streams which sit aside the churning conveyor belt of productivity—but, Death and Birds have revealed to me the open maw of joylessness which the conveyor belt feeds, and so I slip into those waters, and instead of finding failure there, I find life.
Death itself can prove a powerful ally indeed, especially when it comes to eluding the many and varied, subtle and stealthy ways in which we are tempted to surrender to the slow and painful death of a weakened attention—to death by a thousand notifications. It’s ironic, how common the fear of Death is, how pathologically the topic is avoided, and yet we surrender so many of our living hours to deadened states. Real Death is a loving act, committed by a loving Life. It’s the living-death of diminished presence that deserves our fear.
The first dead body I ever saw was my mother’s. I would have been three and, as such, I am told that my memory of that time is unreliable. Nevertheless, a lingering sense accompanies the recollection, one of: Here, but not here. Her, but not her. It was she, minus something essential, which prompted the wondering of where, then, had this essential piece gone? And, more importantly, how would I get it back?
The second body was, I believe, that of a stranger. I was still very young, and was at a craft fair held in the grounds of a local castle. I’d walked over to a small crowd of people who had circled a man laying on the grass, while a woman in a fluorescent jacket rhythmically forced her crossed palms into the centre of his chest; not stopping, even as she glanced at the man who knelt opposite and solemnly shook her head.
Early glimpses at separation of being from body planted curiosities in my bones, which grew as I did. There is a vast spectrum of the human manifestation. How easily we can be here, without truly being here—and how present people can feel, even while definitively absent. Death, strange blessing that it is, insists itself upon the now. Birds, strange blessings that they are, demonstrate an unwavering commitment to that which is before them. How generous both are in their invitations to join them in the simple ceremony of the immediate.
At times, though, like these, the immediate can feel unbearable. I feel as though I held my breath at the beginning of the year, and am yet to exhale. The seeds of collapse, planted over the years, seem as though they might be emerging, and the relentless unease set to accompany this particular junction in history hangs like morning fog. No wonder the swathes of digital sand, eager for heads to be buried, appear so fiercely appealing. No better time, then, to call on the wisdom of the winged, and to seek respite within the trees. Our souls, like all wild and winged thing, know what they need to thrive.
Yours in aimless flight…
Friends, the multitalented took various threads of voices and wove them into a beautiful offering of Birds of Prayer. You’ll find her words stitching together those of , , , , Jay, and yours truly, into a luminous gift of hope in the dark. I do hope you enjoy 🌿
Hi Chloe, such beauty in your words and voice. I love how the Pheasants have required you to slow, and she certainly is majestic. Death as a ‘loving act’, really resonates with me, l refer to death as an act of intimacy, having been present for my partner, mother and fathers. Such a gift to be with a loved one to bear witness to their souls releasing their bodies. I am sorry you lost your mother at such a young age and no doubt your body holds that memory. And yes, how you remind us that we might abandon the conditioned sense of urgency that deadens us to what the birds remind us ‘about the simple ceremony of the immediate.’ I sense a ‘collapse’ is indeed necessary for our humanity to thrive, and awaken to the ‘wisdom of the winged’ and other sentient beings like the trees. Thank you 🙏💜
As I walk toward my inevitable date with Death I am increasingly at peace, not hoping for the encounter but also curious and expectant. What a unique privilege it is to live. Your words resonate, again. Many thanks.