Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
Our garden has recently become the chosen venue for local Magpie conventions. Frequently, of a morning, a group of about fifteen Magpies will gather in the centre of the lawn. They’ll chat and play, while seeming to enjoy the catering offered by us, their dutiful hosts. Then, like clockwork, the three Crows who call our garden home will simultaneously swoop at the Magpie assembly, who quickly scatter up and out like a monochrome-firework, coming to perch in various tall trees.
From there, they look down upon their adversaries and telepathically plot their return. One by one, the tribe of Magpies land, peripherally at first before edging towards a daring proximity to the Crows—each of whom holds their ground, just as the roots of the Oaks hold theirs. Typically, when the tension becomes too much, the patriarch of the Crows will caw for reinforcements and the convention will come to a close.
Once, though, a young squirrel came walking through the scene, blithely heading towards a scattering of sunflower seeds. The anomaly gave the entire council pause, as they no doubt pondered whether they were witnessing an act of courage or insanity. They seemed unable to decide, and so, on that strange day, Crow and Magpie alike shared the space peacefully alongside the mammalian imposter.
I read once of a theory that every possible outcome of an event actually occurs in a separate, parallel universe—so, when a decision is made, all possible outcomes happen, each in a different "world" or branch of reality. There is a world where the squirrel was mobbed, and a world where he never risked an appearance. The overwhelming complexity of the idea made my brain ache, so I put it aside and never thought of it again; until, in the summer of 2022, my dear friend, Daniel, took his own life.
When I learned the news of his Death, it felt distinctly as though I had been split into two parts, as though half of my consciousness was so offended by the idea of a reality without him in it that it had gone to occupy the branch of reality where he had not killed himself, and we were both still alive. It was months before I began to occupy one person, one reality, again. Even now, I’ll sometimes find myself briefly inhabiting the Chloe who is in the world where Daniel still lives. “What will he want for Christmas?” she’ll think.
Truly grieving is, in my opinion, one of the most courageous acts that one can undertake—not least because it requires us to be present to the reality in which our loss has occurred. It is a sacred practice, and I’ve heard it said that the prayers offered by the grieving are more potent. Perhaps that’s true, perhaps the Gods do tilt their heads in the direction of the heartbroken. If that is the case, there must be many a crooked neck up there.
Standing at the crossroads of what was, what is, and what should and could have been, is perhaps when we are at our most human. Coming to land in our true position in space and time offers a strangely disorienting kind of clarity. There are still times, though, when I will rail against the branch of reality in which I find myself. I’ll long to have veered into a world where horror was less prolific, and beauty better respected.
I wonder, though, whether horror and beauty are two wings of the same Bird—a Bird that embodies the universal force of awe, that strange, visceral thing which forces us into relationship with something far larger than ourselves. In Death, the horror of the loss of a whole existence—and the beauty of the wisdom of a natural thing, as indifferent to our preferences as the sky.
Inhabiting this now Daniel-less world is, of course, preferential to the one in which our paths never crossed, and I am eternally grateful to the forces that drove our bond to form, for they ensured a connection that is not reliant upon the two of us existing in the same branch of reality for it to endure.
The Magpies did not convene this morning, and I was the only mammalian imposter that the Crows had to consider. The Oaks are just starting to turn, here.
Horror persists.
Beauty prevails.
Yours in aimless flight…
Friends, I was invited to participate in ’s famous ‘8 Questions’ interview and was delighted to accept. If you wish, you may read it here:
I've read about that theory too. And after my youngest brother died, in a freak accident, I also had spontaneous experiences of living in parallel realities, where he was still alive.
But you are absolutely right. In the face of horror of a loss of a whole existence, the only solution is to practice the sacred act of truly grieving.
Thank you for another beautiful, powerful write. 💕🙏 🪶
My friend Vince, who took his own life, has been strong in my mind of late. I've kept seeing him in that moment of decision and the immediate consequences. The aftermath. I recently took his birthday out of my calendar. I wonder if it's because he now has another. And I still want to shout at him for doing what he did, and want to shake him, and say, "No." And I know his suffering was great and in that moment it felt like the right, the only thing to do. Another Vincent carries on with his friends, knocking on my door, telling me about his son.