impossibly tiny feathers
the Ghost Nebula, and hope
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
I am, seemingly annually, filled to bursting with hope for new years, smiling quietly to myself during the final weeks of December as I picture the shiny new year, packed with possibility. The New Year is Beethovens 9th, all determination and resolve—that is, until January the 1st. Like clockwork, January arrives and I remember that, fundamentally, nothing has changed. I am still me, the world still the world, the date is arbitrary and many weeks of Winter stand grey and uninviting on the horizon, waiting to be endured.
I tend to feel weighed down, in January. Heavy boots, lead jacket kind of thing, and so it is a time when I must employ my full arsenal of reasons to be cheerful. My beloved reminds me to “orientate towards beauty”, and so, I list the things which come to mind when I close my eyes and summon the beautiful: The Redwings which have suddenly descended, the way my love hums in his sleep, the Ghost Nebula, the sound that baby Crows make when they’re fed, hope, the impossibly tiny feathers around little Birds eyes, the story-rich body of my 91-year-old friend, forgiveness, trees.