Magically Boring Update

my birthday crow
my birthday crow

It’s been a long time since I’ve written. I’ve somehow been sucked into a wordless life where everything is both completely, boringly normal and suspiciously magical at the same time.

I find myself even more obsessed than usual with nature and surprises and the kinds of surprises that nature offers. Last night on a walk I watched a perfect white feather drift down from the perch of a white pigeon and land on the ledge running waist-high along the brick wall, and it felt like a gift of timing and the sort of lunacy that makes a feather into a treasure. Last week on my birthday I put the last brick of suet out for the sparrows, and moments later, a massive hawk flew out of the tree and down the alley and no birds came at all that day. The day after my birthday I went into the kitchen to make lunch and through the window saw the crow, eating and pausing in his eating so I could take his picture. I wanted to tell him to tell the other crows that I am a friend, but I don’t actually speak crow and my human language startled him and he flew away.

All along it’s felt like I’ve been doing nothing. What I’ve been doing is this: making time for my people, even when it feels like time has bent and twisted itself and there’s no sleeping; making time for myself, hours for daydreaming and becoming and learning to make bread and waking up in the middle of the night because the muse doesn’t keep a convenient schedule; holding on, sometimes just barely, to love and grace and sanity even as destructive forces sink their talons into the world and rip it to shreds before my eyes. Making new bedding for the ever-growing compost worms, turning tomatoes into sauce, washing dishes, drinking coffee, washing dishes, drinking coffee, reading the cards again and again surrounded by the best, very best most beautiful friends I could ask for… making imperfect circles out of glass shards and moving energy and breathing and doing nothing. How is it that doing nothing is also doing something?

I don’t have an answer. This August has been full, a rich compost sprinkled liberally on the tired Earth; you can’t see it yet, but life is stirring, down below. Things are happening.

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