the beat of a wing
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
These last couple of weeks have felt relentless. Death and Birds both rightfully dictate that a critical mass of presence be maintained when in theirs and, while I do my utmost to offer it, it can take a toll. I sometimes wonder whether my skin might be too thin for what I do. What is happening inside a room sometimes feels as though it is happening inside of me. I often struggle to tell where my edges are—to tell where (or even if) I end.
The porous boundary between self and world is no more evident than in a week-old Starling that we have at the rescue centre. He is, quite literally, skin, beak and bones. When he positions himself in his little knitted nest you can see all of his insides organising themselves beneath his outside. There’s a whole universe in there. He opened his eyes a few days ago; a miraculous event for any eyed being; and for any eyed being to witness. What a thing it is, to witness anything at all. An opening eye, the beat of a wing, a rattled exhale—the full arc of existence.
Recently, I was juggling a group of young Long Tailed Tits in attempt to get them back into their aviary. I had a Bird in each hand and a little paintbrush in my mouth, and as I was trying to open the door with my little finger a third baby Long Tail came to perch on my wrist and, little pragmatist that he is, began eating from the end of the paintbrush which I held between my teeth. As we locked eyes, the thought that this moment might be the closest I would ever come to being a mother appeared, quite unexpectedly, and prompted the most complicated of sensations. Namely a deep sense of longing blended with a deep sense of peace.
I have a four-year old niece who is an exceptional human being. She’ll come up to me, holding a small, unremarkable stone and an empty snails shell in her tiny, cupped hands and, offering them up to me, say “Auntie Chloe, will you take care of these precious things?”. With the deepest sincerity, I assure her that I will. Her inherent recognition of that which should be cherished ignites a type of love in me whereby I would eagerly set myself aflame in order to provide a fiery barrier to any minor unhappiness which might befall her. I feel it with the baby Birds, too.
At the rescue centre, we feed the baby Birds a mix of seeds, minerals, vitamins and undivided attention, as this sets them up well for their eventual release in to the big wide, complex and oft uncaring world. Feeding the Birds has gradually made me more attuned to what it is that I am feeding at any given time. And to what is demanding to be fed. Politicians seem to be particularly hungry beings, who should have fledged a long time ago, and whom I have decided to no longer feed. The Gods of war and vengeance, too, seem to be feasting.
From the train, during the week, I saw three (three!) juvenile foxes curled up next to each other, sleeping in the sun, on top of a garage roof. I gasped and looked excitedly around the busy carriage, assuming I could find a strangers eyes to meet so that we could share a smile at the preciousness of what we’d both just witnessed—but no luck. The iPhone remains the best fed God of the modern day pantheon.
David is outside, feeding an incredibly eager little Robin who we released in the garden last week, after he grew up at the rescue centre. Hood (the Robin) is fascinated by David and, as I type, David is trying not to fall over as Hood weaves around his feet like an excited pup. I take in the adoring smile that ripples over David’s face as he watches Hood in the same way that I take in a sunrise; through the eyes in the centre of my chest.
The tsunami of potential that a single moment, that every moment, contains is so vast. And here we are, each of us blessed with some undisclosed amount of them. Each of us able to feed these moments whatever it is that we wish for them to be nourished by.
I have some very difficult goodbyes coming up, and I can feel my insides organising themselves beneath my outside, in some kind of attempt at preparation. There is a certain insanity to loving anyone mortal but, thankfully, that doesn’t stop us. It is a subtle art, though, preparing ones heart for loss without armouring it. I find that there’s a surprising amount of relief in surrender, in putting my hand over my heart and whispering, “This is really going to hurt”. The depth of grief will always match the depth of love, because they are one and the same.
Yours in aimless flight…
Friends. Love, grief, beauty, sadness, the paradoxical nature of it all, all held within the context of an expanding universe that we’ll never, ever understand. It’s all so vast, and it’s all so human, and it’s all so exquisitely touched upon in a story by
that I have not been able to stop thinking about. The demands of life have left me unable to read much, of late, but I did read this, and I encourage you to do the same. Be thin skinned, for it. I assure you, it’s worth it.
What superb writing. Such can come only rarely for most of us, for we have made thick our boundaries between self- "the lonely imperious thinking power," and the shimmering ocean of love we swim in. We have made of ourselves an unnecessary complexity,.. The light comes in the eyes, but when we are simple, it shines out of them.
Dear Chloe - so much resonates today. Years ago, I observed to a therapist that I didn’t have enough skin for this world. She gave me the exact wrong advice, which set me on a long path to grow a thicker skin. (It didn’t work, thankfully.) Loving what’s mortal without armoring my heart put me in mind of Mary Oliver’s poem that I read at my mother’s memorial - https://juliegabrielli.com/lifesaving/poetry/in-blackwater-woods/ 💚