Ramblings
There is the outside and on the outside the birds are singing evensong. Evensong - sweet, filled with the day's longings, filled with the news of possibilities and impossibilities, filled with a completion and satisfaction which we humans shall never know. Or we could know - we never choose to know. Sometimes, just sometimes, i do touch it, briefly, for a moment - for a moment i am entered into the birdsong and i am bouyant, lifted by a fluttering beyond the register of any instrument.
A month has nearly passed since my last entry. My days between that and this have been filled too with the comings and goings of wings. Flutterings such as the ones the starlings that gather twigs and fluff make in the garden. The busy-ness of business - the business of bringing up a child. Children. Ghin has begun to toddle more certainly with greater certainty. The stomps. The independance. He delights in this. He giggles as he reaches daddy. Daddy he shouts. Truck he is beginning to say. Dog! Clock! Every word is urgent, an exclaimation. A declaration. Look! Dat! And then there is the singing - absorbed and intent, as if he were discovering the first notes to a great symphony. He is siphoning, channelling the music of the spheres. Nnnnnn - nnnnnnh! he hums to himself in the car as he watches the scenery slide past. Dooooo doooo! Ummmmmm! his eyebrows knit the disembodied pieces of Bach, Hendrix, Galway or Mika together. Or Backstreet Boys, who knows? He loves music. He hums while he has my breast in his mouth. Pah poo! Ba boo! I am a flesh and blood trumpet. I laugh.
I am trying to wean him. Stop him from wanting me. It is hard. He is now dependant and i am dependant. I want to comfort him with my body too. But i am so tired. I can't do this forever. My fringe is streaked with the whiteness of exhaustion. I have never been so chronically tired in all my life. I sigh constantly. Rub my face constantly. My skin is papery, dry. I have moments of vacanccy. I stare and forget what i was about to say. My thoughts float away, like dandelion seeds. I am in a perpetual state of concern. My body is saturated with attention and like an over fertilised plant i am beginning to wilt.
I can't keep this up, but there is nothing more truthful and sublime than the making of milk and it's dispensing. I don't know how i do it, but i do. And our needs are equally real, equally urgent. I think of women who use their children against their husbands, partners. It is the only power we have - sometimes, most of the time. It is the only thing that we have jurisdiction over. I can see the temptation to forget the autonomy of the being that was created by you. I hear my mother say, i beranak you pain pain. Show some gratitude. It is an ambivalent dance. The dance of dependance and independance.
For fear and hoping. Of longing and fulfilment. All these begun already as soon as the cells of our hearts form. Three cells that solstice and disolstice. Already we are formed.
And then there is freedom.
I no longer know what freedom is. Or rather i am less and less certain.
I only know that my little quadrangle of family life is most real. The struggles of the world beyond are perplexing. I forget now what it must have been like to be certain, so certain, of change.
Not the inevitable change of the moment - no, i am more and more convinced of that now. When i mean change, dare i say it, change that is driven by ego. Change that is driven by fear. Change which dresses up itself as progress. Development. In other words, change that fears change itself. Change that actually longs to keep things the same.
I am not making sense.
Surrender. I have surrendered so many things. Let it be.
Only because i no longer know. I'm not certain any longer.
And the world is changing. Suddenly bankers, economists are in a panic. How come no one predicted this? Suddenly everyone says i saw it coming. How can everyone suddenly see it coming while they led us here? Two weeks ago people were successful, they were drawing large bonuses. Suddenly they're washed up. Bereft. The media love a story full of dramatics. And i think it might be this - humans are addicted to drama. The intensity of the moment. It is only then they think they are alive, so they seek this out. Alive when they are closest to death. Real - everything becomes real then. Life and death in the balance. The fight. They will this.
And the stones must look on and wonder what the fuss is about. Their wisdom that has been accummulated through witnessing. Watch and learn they whisper. If only we could hear.
A month has nearly passed since my last entry. My days between that and this have been filled too with the comings and goings of wings. Flutterings such as the ones the starlings that gather twigs and fluff make in the garden. The busy-ness of business - the business of bringing up a child. Children. Ghin has begun to toddle more certainly with greater certainty. The stomps. The independance. He delights in this. He giggles as he reaches daddy. Daddy he shouts. Truck he is beginning to say. Dog! Clock! Every word is urgent, an exclaimation. A declaration. Look! Dat! And then there is the singing - absorbed and intent, as if he were discovering the first notes to a great symphony. He is siphoning, channelling the music of the spheres. Nnnnnn - nnnnnnh! he hums to himself in the car as he watches the scenery slide past. Dooooo doooo! Ummmmmm! his eyebrows knit the disembodied pieces of Bach, Hendrix, Galway or Mika together. Or Backstreet Boys, who knows? He loves music. He hums while he has my breast in his mouth. Pah poo! Ba boo! I am a flesh and blood trumpet. I laugh.
I am trying to wean him. Stop him from wanting me. It is hard. He is now dependant and i am dependant. I want to comfort him with my body too. But i am so tired. I can't do this forever. My fringe is streaked with the whiteness of exhaustion. I have never been so chronically tired in all my life. I sigh constantly. Rub my face constantly. My skin is papery, dry. I have moments of vacanccy. I stare and forget what i was about to say. My thoughts float away, like dandelion seeds. I am in a perpetual state of concern. My body is saturated with attention and like an over fertilised plant i am beginning to wilt.
I can't keep this up, but there is nothing more truthful and sublime than the making of milk and it's dispensing. I don't know how i do it, but i do. And our needs are equally real, equally urgent. I think of women who use their children against their husbands, partners. It is the only power we have - sometimes, most of the time. It is the only thing that we have jurisdiction over. I can see the temptation to forget the autonomy of the being that was created by you. I hear my mother say, i beranak you pain pain. Show some gratitude. It is an ambivalent dance. The dance of dependance and independance.
For fear and hoping. Of longing and fulfilment. All these begun already as soon as the cells of our hearts form. Three cells that solstice and disolstice. Already we are formed.
And then there is freedom.
I no longer know what freedom is. Or rather i am less and less certain.
I only know that my little quadrangle of family life is most real. The struggles of the world beyond are perplexing. I forget now what it must have been like to be certain, so certain, of change.
Not the inevitable change of the moment - no, i am more and more convinced of that now. When i mean change, dare i say it, change that is driven by ego. Change that is driven by fear. Change which dresses up itself as progress. Development. In other words, change that fears change itself. Change that actually longs to keep things the same.
I am not making sense.
Surrender. I have surrendered so many things. Let it be.
Only because i no longer know. I'm not certain any longer.
And the world is changing. Suddenly bankers, economists are in a panic. How come no one predicted this? Suddenly everyone says i saw it coming. How can everyone suddenly see it coming while they led us here? Two weeks ago people were successful, they were drawing large bonuses. Suddenly they're washed up. Bereft. The media love a story full of dramatics. And i think it might be this - humans are addicted to drama. The intensity of the moment. It is only then they think they are alive, so they seek this out. Alive when they are closest to death. Real - everything becomes real then. Life and death in the balance. The fight. They will this.
And the stones must look on and wonder what the fuss is about. Their wisdom that has been accummulated through witnessing. Watch and learn they whisper. If only we could hear.
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