DAILY The Birder turned his head to better hear the call. He listened as though his ears extended six feet, then smiled as the repetition of exact tone and glottal dissonance reached him. I watched his eyes follow the sound, and though he could not yet see the bird, he stood in patience, waiting for feather and beak to emerge from shadowy greens. Soon all would be known. When he sighted the bird, he raised his binoculars and I could almost see his ears retract into his skull. Spying on him, I grew sad that I had not taken time lately to stop and listen. In observing his utter pleasure, I felt enormous loss. I used to make daily quiet time to see that which was hidden, to meander over a foggy beach. Now, I’m only distracted, cruising at Mach 10, so it’s hard to hear anyone beyond a tweet, which ain’t no birdsong. How much richness are we willing to forgo? To be truly rich- we need depth. To hear, we must really listen, and for that we need to-be-here-now. How many Peony un-furlings, sweet cat-nuzzles, laughter with old friends, and pillow-talks with partners are we willing to ignore…never mind mysteries calling from ‘shadowy greens?’ There’s something to be said for dropping out, or at the very least- drawing a line in the sand beyond which we will not speed up. Is that possible? Stopping long enough to hear unspoken feelings, to absorb and offer feed back, may be a dying art. It has certainly become a generous art, and when offered-no small gift. Careening through the year, bouncing from one stop-gap measure to another, the receptive feminine has become ignored and abused. She, that takes in and nourishes, is growing weaker and weaker. Sensory overload is shutting down systems,… Read more »
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