Sometimes, without looking, you find a
birds’ nest. Wisdom has us collect
things. We don’t know why. If it is a natural thing it is a way for us to
connect with the world that is not manipulated.
Are we guided by the animal still faintly alive in us? Claire collects
birds’ nests. Mrs. Scattergood might
wish for the secrecy of the egg. Up in
the trees close to the sky, the world of becoming. The eggs direct from the fecund fertile
darkness of yin. Encased in the yin night.
It would almost be insane not to want to collect birds’ nests.
Wisdom is like water; seeks its own level
beyond the consciousness we know, beyond the scope of language. Most is always
unspoken and some comes in a language we don’t know. “My mother’s first
language was Yiddish and mine,” Mrs. Scattergood followed, “was the
ocean.” Even as Mrs. Scattergood was
living her life in Newark she was waiting for the time she could go down the
shore.
Years later, missing her mother, she would write the River Lena, for if
her mother was not named after the river, surely the river, was a metaphor for
the connection she felt to her – flowing when she was alive, and though frozen
in the winter since her death, a road she could travel on to be with her.
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