So beautiful. A friend recommended your substack to me this morning and it's like finding a sister-self. In your words I can see my own, and my sentiment and emotion. What a blessing. So glad to have found your writing
We're all like birds too landing to feed on this essay. I'm grateful for this feed, and how it reminds of our magical inseparability from nature. One moment a tree, and the next a crying cloud! Thank you for the words.
I think that Spiders DO worry. I accidentally knocked a regular visitor off a curtain and he disappeared for a few days, apparently worried that I’d had enough of him! But he did return. Thankfully.
I wish I could help with your headaches. Migraines? Back or neck issues? Poor love. Debilitating things. Sigh...
And thank goodness for birds and trees and nature reminding us that we are only a small part of the puzzle, but that what we feel matters.
Take care dear Chloe. Sending heaps of warm, soothing thoughts from Down Under. (where winters tend to be delightfully (comparatively) mild and short.)
It's bitter cold here in Atlanta too, 19º F though we do have glorious sunshine which offers that same uncomfortable paradox you so beautifully illustrate in this week's piece. To be in the present is to accept and hold the cross current of feeling that's running through us.
I love the connection you draw between yourself and trees as benevolent perches for birds. It is a nourishing feeling to give comfort, rest or shelter to another creature. Thank you so much for, once again, making my Sunday morning complete. I loved this one so much.
I am sending you a multi-faceted first-aid kit with an ice pack, hot water bottle-just because it works for most things-, dark chocolate, kitten hugs-because mine uses your heart as a pillow and gazes adoringly back at you and in the abundance of her love I can almost forget physical pain- and it might just work for you too.💜
Also, she doesn't know it yet but she will never catch a bird nor a butterfly, nor any of the field mice...I hope!
I usually read your lovely essays but today, while cross-legged on the sofa with my long tom Otis curled into a tight ball on my lap and gray jays flitted outside my window with the thawing day, I listened to you. And I felt like Otis and I became your perch, your gentle wisdom landing and inviting presence. And then more presence. And then more. ❤️
"like" doesn't quite cover it. Thanks to you and the little fledglings, settling like poems.or snow. It feels.like the breath of something beautiful, like cool clean air on an autumn morning, or just after a storm.
"The present, it turns out, is a timeless place. There is only it. Nothing to regret, nothing to forebode. Just you, a bird, and the endless now." So true and something I try to keep in mind on my walks in Nature. We have had such cold weather lately, but still the Black-capped Chickadees are out greeting my on the trails.
What a delightful account of your being. From a place of openness, caring, and oneness with our shared Now. Your remarks about the spider brought to mind an account of a woman in Missouri (?) who was pained to see her two horses out in the snow and cold. She took action and brought them both into her home. Impractical? Ask the horses. Thank you so much for yet another prompt to be present.
"I wondered whether this is how trees feel. God, I hope that this is how trees feel."
This brought such a smile, Chloe. I hope that is indeed how they feel. They are the masters of the still, the present, and the now.
I'm sorry your winter is so everlasting. Spring is coming, I assure you. I have seen the future, and it is filled with spring. I hope there is some solace in the fact the days are at least lengthening, even if minutely. Sorry also to hear of the headaches. May they abate with haste! Know that your words bring comfort and warmth.
I thought of you last week because I was having lunch outside my building at work and two large birds came hopping over to me, all inquisitive. I gave them a nod, taking a moment to wonder upon what they were wondering. At first I thought they were crows, but then I questioned whether they were ravens, and then I realised I wasn't 100% sure whether we had crows, so I checked, and what do you know, it was a "little" (massive) raven.
This is obviously incredibly off-topic, but this snippet of info also made me smile, so I thought I'd share it:
"If you live in a capital city, it’s very basic because every capital city only has one species. So if you are in Perth, Canberra, or Sydney, chances are you are seeing an Australian raven. If you are in Melbourne and Adelaide, it’s a Little Raven, and a Little Raven is basically only one centimeter shorter than an Australian Raven. So don’t worry and get hung up about the little term. They look basically the same size. If you’re in Hobart, it’s a Forest Raven, and if you’re in Darwin or Brisbane, it is a Torresian Crow."
Oh, Chloe. This is one of my favorite of yours, and that’s saying a lot. It is, indeed, so easy to be consumed by pain.
I have a brown marmalated stink bug living with me. He has long antennae and likes to walk circles around the lamp shade near my work station. Occasionally, something sends him a fluttering, and he’ll buzz up toward the overhead light, wings seeming to flail. I tell him that everything’s all right. But like you with Spartacus, I doubt it’s really worry that causes this sudden occasional upstart.
I've been undertaking a practice I've nicknamed "the threshold"...neither wallow-walking backward into the past or springing with fright into the future. I grasped for the threshold's uncomfortable and odd stability for similar reasons the tree root helped you upend. I can only state at this point that it is a practice and I am curious to see if it changes a few things...even at this elder stage in my life experience. Thank you for your beautiful wordings. I find them comforting.
"Good or bad, loved or feared, nothing lasts forever." The ultimate lesson in detachment, dear Chloe. We all need reminding to not get attached to our pain -- or to our joy. It is ALL transient. I understood and loved the two words you tucked in here regarding how we cope In the face of losing someone we love, we "clean, maniacally." That would be my answer for just about everything. This was such a lovely piece. Thank you.
So beautiful. A friend recommended your substack to me this morning and it's like finding a sister-self. In your words I can see my own, and my sentiment and emotion. What a blessing. So glad to have found your writing
We're all like birds too landing to feed on this essay. I'm grateful for this feed, and how it reminds of our magical inseparability from nature. One moment a tree, and the next a crying cloud! Thank you for the words.
I think that Spiders DO worry. I accidentally knocked a regular visitor off a curtain and he disappeared for a few days, apparently worried that I’d had enough of him! But he did return. Thankfully.
I wish I could help with your headaches. Migraines? Back or neck issues? Poor love. Debilitating things. Sigh...
And thank goodness for birds and trees and nature reminding us that we are only a small part of the puzzle, but that what we feel matters.
Take care dear Chloe. Sending heaps of warm, soothing thoughts from Down Under. (where winters tend to be delightfully (comparatively) mild and short.)
It's bitter cold here in Atlanta too, 19º F though we do have glorious sunshine which offers that same uncomfortable paradox you so beautifully illustrate in this week's piece. To be in the present is to accept and hold the cross current of feeling that's running through us.
I love the connection you draw between yourself and trees as benevolent perches for birds. It is a nourishing feeling to give comfort, rest or shelter to another creature. Thank you so much for, once again, making my Sunday morning complete. I loved this one so much.
I am sending you a multi-faceted first-aid kit with an ice pack, hot water bottle-just because it works for most things-, dark chocolate, kitten hugs-because mine uses your heart as a pillow and gazes adoringly back at you and in the abundance of her love I can almost forget physical pain- and it might just work for you too.💜
Also, she doesn't know it yet but she will never catch a bird nor a butterfly, nor any of the field mice...I hope!
The birds land on you? Is that special to these birds or is it you, in particular, whom they adore?
I usually read your lovely essays but today, while cross-legged on the sofa with my long tom Otis curled into a tight ball on my lap and gray jays flitted outside my window with the thawing day, I listened to you. And I felt like Otis and I became your perch, your gentle wisdom landing and inviting presence. And then more presence. And then more. ❤️
"like" doesn't quite cover it. Thanks to you and the little fledglings, settling like poems.or snow. It feels.like the breath of something beautiful, like cool clean air on an autumn morning, or just after a storm.
"The present, it turns out, is a timeless place. There is only it. Nothing to regret, nothing to forebode. Just you, a bird, and the endless now." So true and something I try to keep in mind on my walks in Nature. We have had such cold weather lately, but still the Black-capped Chickadees are out greeting my on the trails.
What a delightful account of your being. From a place of openness, caring, and oneness with our shared Now. Your remarks about the spider brought to mind an account of a woman in Missouri (?) who was pained to see her two horses out in the snow and cold. She took action and brought them both into her home. Impractical? Ask the horses. Thank you so much for yet another prompt to be present.
"I wondered whether this is how trees feel. God, I hope that this is how trees feel."
This brought such a smile, Chloe. I hope that is indeed how they feel. They are the masters of the still, the present, and the now.
I'm sorry your winter is so everlasting. Spring is coming, I assure you. I have seen the future, and it is filled with spring. I hope there is some solace in the fact the days are at least lengthening, even if minutely. Sorry also to hear of the headaches. May they abate with haste! Know that your words bring comfort and warmth.
I thought of you last week because I was having lunch outside my building at work and two large birds came hopping over to me, all inquisitive. I gave them a nod, taking a moment to wonder upon what they were wondering. At first I thought they were crows, but then I questioned whether they were ravens, and then I realised I wasn't 100% sure whether we had crows, so I checked, and what do you know, it was a "little" (massive) raven.
This is obviously incredibly off-topic, but this snippet of info also made me smile, so I thought I'd share it:
"If you live in a capital city, it’s very basic because every capital city only has one species. So if you are in Perth, Canberra, or Sydney, chances are you are seeing an Australian raven. If you are in Melbourne and Adelaide, it’s a Little Raven, and a Little Raven is basically only one centimeter shorter than an Australian Raven. So don’t worry and get hung up about the little term. They look basically the same size. If you’re in Hobart, it’s a Forest Raven, and if you’re in Darwin or Brisbane, it is a Torresian Crow."
Oh, Chloe. This is one of my favorite of yours, and that’s saying a lot. It is, indeed, so easy to be consumed by pain.
I have a brown marmalated stink bug living with me. He has long antennae and likes to walk circles around the lamp shade near my work station. Occasionally, something sends him a fluttering, and he’ll buzz up toward the overhead light, wings seeming to flail. I tell him that everything’s all right. But like you with Spartacus, I doubt it’s really worry that causes this sudden occasional upstart.
I've been undertaking a practice I've nicknamed "the threshold"...neither wallow-walking backward into the past or springing with fright into the future. I grasped for the threshold's uncomfortable and odd stability for similar reasons the tree root helped you upend. I can only state at this point that it is a practice and I am curious to see if it changes a few things...even at this elder stage in my life experience. Thank you for your beautiful wordings. I find them comforting.
Beautiful. I don’t know what else to say. So much power yet so light of touch. Just like a song bird.
"Good or bad, loved or feared, nothing lasts forever." The ultimate lesson in detachment, dear Chloe. We all need reminding to not get attached to our pain -- or to our joy. It is ALL transient. I understood and loved the two words you tucked in here regarding how we cope In the face of losing someone we love, we "clean, maniacally." That would be my answer for just about everything. This was such a lovely piece. Thank you.
Your words are medicine for my heart.