The rock of the obvious
and every last kiss
There is a charm of (European) Goldfinches who have taken to appearing on our drive, suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, marauding through, all chattering and gorgeous. Their splashes of red and yellow make them appear as though they have adorned themselves especially in celebration of the season. I’ve been thinking a lot about attention, of late, spurred by a line in the book I’m reading (Practical Mysticism by Evelyn Underhill):
What, out of the mass of material offered to it, shall consciousness seize upon—with what aspects of the universe shall it unite?
I very much like the idea of my consciousness uniting with these Goldfinches, so I have taken to stopping whatever I am doing when they appear. It makes for some disjointed conversations, but it is entirely worth it.
Reality has a way of becoming particularly interesting when we gather up the entirety of ourselves and channel it toward a singular focus. I once kissed the hand of a dying woman with such sincerity that I swear the kiss contained an echo of every kiss ever given as though it were the last.
The connective webbing of life is not bound by space, or time.