This morning, after a restless night, I laid my head in my young son’s lap, feeling his tiny hands on my cheek. And in the infinite wisdom of a young soul, he asked, “How come grown ups wreck the earth if it’s our home?” I wish we could all feel our hearts shake at the cries of young little birds, reminding us that this matters. That the life all around us is indeed the most important thing in existence 🕊️💗.
I am with my 93 year old father these days as his small craft turns towards his farthest shore. Your words '...as sweet a reciprocity as exists between Life and Death—where she brings him everything she has, and in return, he makes her precious' are filling me. He is bringing everything he has, and so are the baby Robins, and on this morning of rain this is love, this is the light in the darkness.
Your stories, your distinct and beautiful way of telling them, are the birds beneath MY chin, steadying me in this nauseating pendulum swing. This, too, is hope: when distance and time disappear as reader and writer connect on the page, sharing something sacred. Thank you, sister across the sea.
I had a response to this but it disappeared into internet ether as I was writing. It late here in Arizona and I’ll just let the disappearance be a message.
Something else I’ll share some other time but I’m having ideas about birds, the only surviving dinosaurs, epigenetics passed on by the female and recently found to, also, be passed by the male, and connecting it to what Jung called the collective unconscious.
"Faith in my own species set sail some years back, and I watch as it becomes ever smaller on the horizon."
Dearest Chloe, I read this line and tears well unbidden in exhausted eyes.
Last week I spied, quite by chance while on an a baby owl hunt in my barn, a nest high up in the pine tree barely meters from the window. In the nest was a male wood-pigeon, I presumed he was sitting on eggs, doing the morning shift so to speak. I watched from my window for three days, hoping for tiny beaks to appear on skinny featherless necks.
On the fourth day as I peered out from my hidden view-point—still hoping—the neighbour arrived with his shotgun. Without hesitation he pointed the barrels up through the branches and fired. He didn't hear my scream, 'Noooo!' He simply pulled the trigger as I have seen him do many times before to many other nests of birds he considers pests. I crumpled, legs buckled, to the floor.
Threats of this time are indeed multifaceted, hope and faith, mine, much less so.
This was so heartwarming in a world of deep horror Chloe. I have been silently screaming for some time. The hundreds of thousands of men have collapsed me. What I have for solace are books, music and good friends. And magpies.
This morning, after a restless night, I laid my head in my young son’s lap, feeling his tiny hands on my cheek. And in the infinite wisdom of a young soul, he asked, “How come grown ups wreck the earth if it’s our home?” I wish we could all feel our hearts shake at the cries of young little birds, reminding us that this matters. That the life all around us is indeed the most important thing in existence 🕊️💗.
I am with my 93 year old father these days as his small craft turns towards his farthest shore. Your words '...as sweet a reciprocity as exists between Life and Death—where she brings him everything she has, and in return, he makes her precious' are filling me. He is bringing everything he has, and so are the baby Robins, and on this morning of rain this is love, this is the light in the darkness.
Your stories, your distinct and beautiful way of telling them, are the birds beneath MY chin, steadying me in this nauseating pendulum swing. This, too, is hope: when distance and time disappear as reader and writer connect on the page, sharing something sacred. Thank you, sister across the sea.
Love the way you write so much, such a joy to read ❤️ love that the little robins came back on their own accord too yay xx
I had a response to this but it disappeared into internet ether as I was writing. It late here in Arizona and I’ll just let the disappearance be a message.
Something else I’ll share some other time but I’m having ideas about birds, the only surviving dinosaurs, epigenetics passed on by the female and recently found to, also, be passed by the male, and connecting it to what Jung called the collective unconscious.
"Faith in my own species set sail some years back, and I watch as it becomes ever smaller on the horizon."
Dearest Chloe, I read this line and tears well unbidden in exhausted eyes.
Last week I spied, quite by chance while on an a baby owl hunt in my barn, a nest high up in the pine tree barely meters from the window. In the nest was a male wood-pigeon, I presumed he was sitting on eggs, doing the morning shift so to speak. I watched from my window for three days, hoping for tiny beaks to appear on skinny featherless necks.
On the fourth day as I peered out from my hidden view-point—still hoping—the neighbour arrived with his shotgun. Without hesitation he pointed the barrels up through the branches and fired. He didn't hear my scream, 'Noooo!' He simply pulled the trigger as I have seen him do many times before to many other nests of birds he considers pests. I crumpled, legs buckled, to the floor.
Threats of this time are indeed multifaceted, hope and faith, mine, much less so.
In tears at the end of a barn with love xxx
Your thought-provoking writings bring me hope. Thank you.
This was so heartwarming in a world of deep horror Chloe. I have been silently screaming for some time. The hundreds of thousands of men have collapsed me. What I have for solace are books, music and good friends. And magpies.