Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.
It flows through me
Like the blue wave.
Green leaves-you may believe this or not-
Have once or twice
Burst from the tips of my fingers
Deep in the woods,
In the reckless seizure of spring.
Though, of course, I also know that other song,
The sweet passion of one-ness.
Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the tumbled pine seeds she toiled. And I thought: she will never live another life but this one. And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength is she not wonderful and wise? And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything until I came to myself.
And still, even in those northern woods, on these hills of sand I have flown from the window of myself to become white heron, gray whale, fox, hedgehog, camel. Oh sometimes already my body has felt like he body of a flower~ Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.
Just last night I was telling my spouse how these days I go to bed thinking of parrots, and get up in the morning thinking of parrots.. It is like an old friend has come to keep me company once again. For many years I had not had much to do with parrots directly, turning my spirit hope to seeing the wisdom and strength of my own species. This took a while, for returning from years working in Central America, my image of myself amongst humans was that of John the Baptist, screaming mad and spitting locusts. This role came to be I suppose because of the harm I had seen done to the earth and her feathered beings, and the subsequent alternating rage and depression. I found it hard to see anything miraculous about humans who consider themselves atop the pyramid, but eventually I did. That accomplished, more or less and as much as anyone can be fully accepting of our kind, I spend more and more of my days and thoughts back in the avian world. Parrots are not just a flapping and screaming species, nor are humans. Though alas dear heart, some days I long to exchange wisdom for recklessness, and squawk out pure defiance, and yes joy. Perhaps I do as these words sprout from my fingers.
Who are you when you are not yourself?