to swallow the sky
sculptures of matter and mystery
Hello. This post is about Death & Birds. And Dogs.
We arrived in South Africa, last week. The flight was long and arduous, and instantly forgotten upon arriving in a world where nature reveals herself in a succession of relentless explosions—shape, form, colour, sound and scent erupt in each direction. From here it’s clear that the big bang marked the start of an almighty, cosmic exhale upon which the word ‘life’ was spoken—and from here the word still resounds as loudly as it did when our species was but a twinkle in time’s eye.
As I write, we are in Cape Town, staying with a dear friend who recently inherited a home here, along with two rescue dogs: Bailey and Bella. David was here earlier in the year, so I’d heard much about the pair, including some of their histories. I’d heard how Bailey, especially, was carrying the weight of his past experience and was living with a nervous system still in some turmoil. When we arrived at the house in the evening I was mindful to allow him to make his way to me—if he so wished—and so as soon as I exited the car I knelt, bowed my head and softened my body; one hand extended slightly in case he wanted to sniff this entirely new being who had just made their way into his home. Bailey approached, a leaf in this mouth, ignoring my hand and coming instead to press the top of his head and nose into the centre of my chest as though we were the oldest of friends. Outside of the rare and precious privilege of companioning someone as they untangle from this world, or of being depended upon by a wild Bird, I’ve experienced few greater honours than being offered the trust of a being who has every worldly reason not to give it—and, in becoming the beneficiary of said trust, I am made universally bound to prove that the offering was not misplaced.
Being here, in the cradle of humanity, has returned my beginner’s eyes. I become, once again, the me who held a hatchling Blackbird for the first time, who gasped as the little pink chick shot his head upwards and threw his beak into a gape so wide it was as though he wished to swallow the sky. I am reminded that I too want to meet the world with a baseless trust that I might throw myself open, and be met with all that I need. I have, cyclically, been trying to meet life in this way. Just as I have, cyclically, found myself retreating in the face of heartbreak, confusion and a general sense of horror at the ways of the human world. Some workmen came to the house this morning, and one of them, for whatever reason, scared Bailey. He cowered, folding in on himself, this big dog desperately trying to make himself small. Inside he curled into a ball and, while I cradled him, he shook, and shook and shook. About 30 minutes later his shaking calmed, and after three big sighs and a yawn, he fell asleep; and I fell into a fervent desire to be far from the things of man.
Death has taught me well and I have come to love the world, to love life—but I am devastated daily in ways minuscule and monumental by my own species, and so have come to contain a violent tug-of-war in which I long to be immersed in life, all while wanting nothing to do with it. Bailey and the man who once hurt him both emerged from the same cosmic exhale, both are sculptures of matter and mystery, and both are highlighting how my love has hard edges—where I wish so much that it had none.
Jane Goodall (may you be bathed in love on your return to the great Mystery) has been much on my mind of late. I remember vividly being young and seeing her on television interacting with a chimpanzee. I couldn’t have articulated it at the time, but I sensed that she remembered something about communication which most adults had forgotten. Typically, when one human looks at another there’s a general acceptance that there’s an entire world in there: memories, dreams, hope, grief. No proof demanded. Just generosity of imagination and a presumption of depth—but that generosity becomes oddly limited in response to the more than human world. This bizarre epistemological gate-keeping where human-style consciousness is the only kind that counts creates a self-imposed isolation which makes for an awfully lonely experience. A Bird’s knowing of its birdness is built on different architecture and so perceives a different slice of reality, but it is no less deep or rich for it; though, of course, if we acknowledged the inner life of beings that are, globally, treated so horrifically...well, suddenly our species appears rather sociopathic.
When Bailey is feeling good, he picks up a leaf. He will bring you the leaf and he’ll allow you to look at it—but it is not your leaf to take, it is his leaf for you to admire. Bailey appreciates when praise of the leaf is offered, and sometimes even becomes bashful when it’s pointed out that only the goodest of boys could have selected such a fine leaf. His leaves are like his trust—his to offer, not ours to possess. After he woke up, David took him on a run to a nearby waterfall, and not an hour after he had been bunched in a ball in terror, he was throwing himself around in unabated joy. I have so much to learn from this boy. From his courage and his willingness to move through life. We have both totally surrendered our hearts to these dogs, in full knowledge of the fact that they will break a hundred times over upon our parting—because withholding love in attempt to protect oneself from pain is to keep a wild bird caged. It is to deny it the sky.
Yours in aimless flight…
To live softly in the face of Death, and to meet the world with trust despite the evidence, is an ongoing and lifelong practice. If you’re drawn to that kind of work, The Deep End might be of interest to you.
I love how dogs feel so deeply and openly. And how trusting they are, despite everything. That cliche about wanting to be the person my dog thinks I am . . . “withholding love in attempt to protect oneself from pain is to keep a wild bird caged. It is to deny it the sky.” Thank you for this gorgeous piece, Chloe.
Another lovely piece of writing from your deep and sensitive soul. Thank you Chloe. I am also making my way very slowly through The Deep End. I am getting the recommended reading, thinking, writing, meditating. It will take a long time but every step is precious. Thank you for all that too.