Re: enchanted
doves trace crescent moons in the air
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
At dusk and dawn, when jagged ink branches paint the cool blue sky, I look to the space in-between—to the shapes made and shapes held by these arborescent fractals. And when I die, it is here, in these shapes of nothing, that I will meet you.
As often as I marvel and delight in the aliveness of this world and all it contains, I can too easily forget that just as it is living and breathing, so is it listening and speaking. My ability to forget certain truths which have previously kicked me square in the face, never ceases to amaze me. I spent much of the last few weeks in a loop of internal reprimand, sternly repeating that I must slow down and I must pay more attention. Well, the living, breathing world was listening and it chose the moment that I was using a mandoline vegetable slicer to share that it not only agreed, but that it was willing to kindly assist me in slowing down and in paying more attention. Farewell, small piece of my thumb. I hardly knew ye.
I am, by nature, a slow moving creature. I doubt I’ll ever fall comfortably into the pace of this modern world. When reading about the people of the 19th century who were fearful that a train travelling at the breakneck speed of 30mph might suffocate its passengers by forcing the air out their lungs, I felt a certain kinship—and yet, I struggle to shake off the pervasive, nebulous expectation of immediacy which permeates our culture. Perhaps that, in part, is why I feel so drawn towards Death, Birds, and the natural world; because each would seem to possess a biding respect for their own immutable timelines.
Just before new years, our small corner of the village was plunged into darkness after, somewhere deep within the ground, a transistor failed. It took almost three (rather cold) days for power to be restored. During that time I would spend the day relentlessly bemoaning the lack of heating and other modern conveniences, but, when night rolled in, I softened. Instead of refusing the night with artificial lights and screens, we welcomed it in with fires and candles, and in return the night saw to it that we surrendered the activities of the day. This enforced stilling felt distinctly like being parented, as though something far larger and far wiser than I was gently peeling the toys from my hands and lifting me into bed.
The wisdom of darkness is much discarded, these days. Cities aglow 24 hours a day, empty supermarkets and office buildings lit up throughout the night like beacons of soullessness, and children who hardly ever see the stars. I wonder how much the collective refusal to be in relationship with both Death and our own internal darknesses plays in to this pathological attachment to light. The relentless illumination of our environments suggests an unwillingness to meet the unknown, as though by keeping every corner perpetually lit we might somehow escape the necessity of uncertainty.
At times, it would seem that I am oddly committed to mistaking opportunity for limitation. Only after much gnashing of teeth and demanding of the sky that it give explanation for my inconveniences, will I come to see that they typically are chances for me to widen the lens of my perception—and to become more open and available to the whisperings of the periphery. Much awaits in the margins of our attention, that which has been relegated to the edges in favour of vexation and demand often holds the very cure to our grievances, or at least a reminder that said grievances exist alongside the evening sun, and three-part harmonies, and the Fairy Wren (who sing to their unhatched eggs).
As a child I believed that magic existed, but lay somewhere just beyond reach. Thankfully, in adulthood I grew out of that delusion and came to see that not only is it within reach, it is everywhere. Our world is overflowing with the enchanted; wisdom passes through tree roots, thoughts become cathedrals, the wingtips of collared doves trace crescent moons in the air and love traverses space and time. We were born to reside in the wondrous; and whenever we lose touch with it, we must forgive ourselves the forgetting, and endeavour to find our way home.
Yours in aimless flight…
I have always believed in magic. Your words are a welcome to the early hours of my morning , covered in blankets , the world outside my window still waiting for the early light of the rising sun. “… being parented, as though something far larger and far wiser than I was gently peeling the toys from my hands and lifting me into bed.” In that very same way, I remember those nights when I was a child , Mother Nature working overtime creating great raging storms; I can still gather memories of the family huddled by the fire. When it was time for bed, I can close my eyes remembering, still feeling my mother’s arms wrapping around me to carry me to my room. Her warm breath on my neck. She would hum, always the same melody. Maybe like the Fairy Wren the tune was born long before I came into this world. She left a single flame of a candle dancing silently, laying soft golden light and shadows on my bedroom walls .The feeling of content,of safety, loved, and home .Thank you my dear friend for reminding me ;“Much awaits in the margins” I can still access these visions, their shapes, how they feel, almost tangible, I need only close my eyes . Not only is the magic all around us, it is also in the remembering.
(My sympathies to your thumb for the injury it has sustained. Damn those Mandolins , akin to the old medieval torture devices ).
I want to live inside your mind for a day. You see the world so beautifully. You speak of things that most in the modern world have forgotten. I love love love the lines-
“As a child I believed that magic existed, but lay somewhere just beyond reach. Thankfully, in adulthood I grew out of that delusion and came to see that not only is it within reach, it is everywhere.”
Too good ✨