the beat of a wing
the full arc of existence
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.