Some things about books and birds and things to cherish past and present, and to look forward to

Some books from entertwined paths along the way.. 'Alex & Me' - I am reading now.
The others, remembered and cherished and held.  Ever returning, one way or another.

And something to look forward to too...
"Our adult identity rests on the pillars of interpersonal love, and gainful work" page 58 'Home Coming'

 

 

 

Read and Reading

H is for Hawk, by Helen Macdonald

Alex and Me, by Irene M. Pepperberg         - This I am reading now. It is also a film! [a few of these books are films]

A Kestrel for a Knave, by Barry Hines

The snow geese, by William Fiennes
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To read: [not in order]
No Way but Gentleness: A memoir of how KES, my Kestrel, changed my life, by Richard Hines,   [Richard was the borther of Barry Hines: A Kestrel for a Knave]
The Goshawk, by T H White. [This book is partly what inspired Helen Macdonald to write 'H is for Hawk']
My side of the Mountain, by Jean Craighead George.
The Snow Goose, by Paul Callico


...

A few weeks ago we started visiting a newly born little bird at our local 'uccelleria'. It was a 'Pappagallo Inseperabile', which directly translated means, more or less,  'inseperable little parrot'.
In fact, in English we call them 'Love Birds' . I like the Italian version. But what I didn't know until it was explained, was that these birds becomes insperable from their primary 'owner' for want of a better word. They are great birds to tame, especially if you hand rear them using a syringe and a kind of baby bird poridge.
This is what they look like when they are pretty small:

 

So my idea, was for Gabriel to become inseperable from the little bird, or the bird to become inseperable from Gabriel or both and just to see what happens and what this inseperability consists of.

We already had 2 Cardellini [finches] which are chirpy colourful spirited little birds, that can't, as far as I know, be tamed. These were our first birds. I dont know what type we have, but one of the things that I love about finches is that they are part of the weaver bird family and in South Africa, as a child, I was always fascinated by the nests of the weaver birds. I love bird stories. Once, our finches layed eggs, but we didnt know how to help them and the baby birds got thrown out the nest. Perhaps it wasnt warm enough for them. We should have put a warm lamp next to the cage. Next time we will. Also, you cant get too close to finches. They're nervy little birds.

So we visited the new little birds and Gabriel held them, for the first time, which was a  wonderful experience. The birds were so young at that time, that we decided to wait a week or two before bringing one home. Finally the time came, and we brought Joe Biden home with us, with great excitement, it was as if the little bird was akin to a brother or sister.
I must say that apparent inseperable-ness was intrenched right away. A feeding and playing regime was set up and our world changed!

Without going into detail, sadly, Joe Biden didn't survive. We learned a lot about sitting with difficult feelings and letting them pass and imagining what bird heaven might look like and praying to the higher power of birds. Joe Biden was buried, with Frida and some other animals in Alta Villa.

We decided, that, we would go back to our local uccelleria, and see if there were any Joe Biden siblings left to bring home. Unfortunately there weren't but we waited patiently, and two weeks later, we proudly brought home Obama, who has now been with us about 4 days. He is forociously hungry, very attached to Gabriel and loves to climb all over us. He is settling in well and has become part of the family. [tonight he devoured 3 syringes full of bird poridge!]

We hope that one day we can live in a house with a garden. We could build a walk-in aviary and collect more birds. We could have bird baths and grow things and sit outside having cups of tea and draw and listen to the sound of tree branches and birds and leaves and put our feet in the sand.
We could grow different seeds to see what happens watch as trees grow bigger than people.

In the meantime, I particularly enjoy thinking about this and reading my books and making things with my  hands.


"She was not quite what you would call refined. She was not quite what you would call unrefined. She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot." Mark Twain

 

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And the final chapter for today, my own winged boy himself!

Scatterlings... and Breaking the Heart Open

 November 9.        [from home:  Scatterlings of Africa]

“God breaks the heart again and again until it stays open.”
—Hazrat Inayat Khan

Creatively, I feel rather scattered. My creations in progress are scatterlings. They are many.  My art is nearly always, or always, [?] a mirror of my life, of me, of my shadow, all of that, Some of that.  But at the same time, the world where my scatterlings live and breath and struggle is always sacred. It is where spirit whispers and plays.

But there is light amongst the little fragments. These nameless fragments that come from my hands over time, that collect and grow and find little ponds and caves as temporary homes, while their bones form. I feel growing impatience and frustration. I wish for them to feel more understood and to speak up a bit. I feel awkward in their indecision. my indecision and awkwardness.  They resist. I resist.
acceptance.

A friend of mine, Meltem, has started growing succulant plants on her terrace. Self taught.
She is amazing, check her out! She is also an artist, from Turkey and is settled here in Palermo Sicily.
                 

She was explaining to me, and showing me the process of growing [propogating!] suculant plants from 'leaves' cut from existing plants.
You basically lay the 'leaves'  on top of  dry-ish soil, and slowly, over time, as they start to need nourishment and food, they will naturally root themselves into the earth, and grow!
You have to be strong and leave them to do it themselves, you don't give them extra water or try to help them too much. I think it is a magical experience or  metaphor for holding space and witnessing and believing in magic!

I found this such an emotional experience really. It reminded me of a new born, [Gabriel in 2013], who 'roots' to find his mothers milk. They do this, naturally, as brand new little humans. It is incredible.

 

 

Enjoy this beautiful magical garden story that Meltem is growing, out of thrown away and found plants, or borrowed leaves and the odd treasures found from some squirrled away part time plant sellers discovered on walks of curiosity in the city of Palermo.


And so brings me to now and today. I am writing this, with the intention, that the process, I hope,  brings some connection, perhaps cohesion or just a start at the gathering of  scatterlings.. the hand made scatterlings. Here are some familiar friends... among others.

I am pondering why it is that my process for the last few months or even the last year or two, feels so frustratingly disjointed and scattered, as if nothing quite wants to be finished and yet demands to be worked on.
It's as if everything is on the brink of taking a hand out of its pocket to be held and listened to, but at the last minute puts its hand back in it's deep dark pockets.  Or it's on the brink of speaking but shuts the door, and goes all quiet, watching through the key hole.

 

 

 

 

I am reminded about my part stitched heart on the wall which has been part made for the longest time. I started it because I wanted to make my heart, to understand my heart and to find a remnant of homeliness in my heart. a center, of sorts.

 

 

 "Collect your memories carefully, fold them up and bind them together with a strong thread; lest we forget the fragile beauty, hidden in today's moment"

Emma Parker

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some days, lately, I feel as if I am doing that, slowly but surely. As I started this blog, I think I even felt that energy tingling a little at the end of my finger tips.. today I stitched quite a lot, and listened to a podcast about Thomas Merton, who I discovered in a little bookshop in Glastonbury many years ago. He was an American Trappist monk, and one of the great Mystics.
 He wrote many wonderful books about prayer and meditation and solitude etc.  Many books. I loved The Seven Story Mountain, and No Man is an Island .  Of course, he remains on my to read list as well as my to re-read list!

This podcast  is fascinating. It is an interview with Robert Hudson who wrote a book about Merton in the 60's and his real life experiences with music - Bob Dylan, Joan Baez and also his predicament where he faced a life changing choice - to choose the woman he loved or the devoted solitude of the monk's life and he chose the monks life. He said he loved this life more than he loved the woman.
'The Monk's Record Player: Thomas Merton, Bob Dylan and the Perilous Summer of 1966' - which I havent yet read!

                                    

 
I felt sad about that, in a way. Not so much in what he chose, but that he had to choose at all . Deep connection with another person is one of our most sacred gifts of self preservation and joy that we have. At the same time, deep connection with spirit is also one of our most sacred gifts of self preservation and joy that we have.

Perhaps the 'The Road Not Taken' is everyone's path in a sense. What we choose .. what we choose..

"Only to the extent that we expose ourselves over and over to annihilation can that which is indestructible be found in us.

[…]    'Things falling' apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy."   
Pema Chodron - 'When things fall apart'

 

                                 

It made me look at my heart on the wall, half made, half broken, in limbo. still waiting and wondering in the wings, a little precariously, a little nagging-ly, alluringly,  - depending on the day.

I read somewhere: 'A broken Heart is an Open Heart' and I also read that we heal through spontaneous acts of love.

I will collect scattered fragments about love, for my heart.

I will focus on stitching and mending and caring for my heart and the rest of the fragments , and the scatterlings will find their way home, like Meltem's little succulant plants that root themselves into the soil and just grow, as we hold space and hope.

I will try to do some acts of spontaneous love

Any my last little wonderful morsel I found about hearts, from the On Being Project

                                            Until the Heart Stays Open

 

 Next blog, I hope to write news about my scatterlings and their journey home....in the moment.