from
the sea (5) - Old birds ludes by
freda karpf
Two women together in Baubo’s thoughts.
She had wanted to reach out to one she had known from a long time ago.
Some people that inspire you, bolster you up when you’re down, come like seeds
in the wind. Hardly directed but
purposeful. Baubo felt a need to reach
out to Kim McDodge. But she let that
urge evaporate. It had been many years
since she had an email. She wanted to reach out to her. Shy, and hesitant even about sending an
email. Her spirit won out and she sent
an email. Two days later, as you might
predict, she learned that Kim had passed.
And so it was also with Anne La Bastille. Out of the blue she had a strong pull to
search and reach out to them. Strong as
the tide. Both had died within days of
her desire to find them. Kim’s loss felt personal because she had exchanged
emails. Both losses felt like the tide receding.
~
How do we keep our mothers in our everyday
when they are gone? How do we hold our
connection to the sacred? And is there a cord we all can follow or is that just
some myth for Minotaurs and men? When a
feather falls from the sky and you see it floating down it’s entirely possible
that the bird is still flying overhead. I have seen some birds with naked
heads. Blue jays and even a sparrow. Molting. Every day the world presents
itself, at various times of the day, so you’ll notice it, without the ones you
love. How is that possible? To be here and not be here. But the connection to
our mothers and to the sacred is held sometimes in the strangest ways. Mrs. Scattergood’s secret, well, only one of
them, but key, was that she kept her holy and only near and dear through
passwords and sign-ons. Access. How
else, these days, can you keep your mother near in the everyday? Questions are like crocheted blankets.
There’s another row of them coming. The scarf is long because the pleasure of
connection is too dear to stop. Leaving the last knot unfinished because nobody
should be bold enough to address the perfect is a deliberate sacred
mistake. We only lean into the realm of
beauty. It is too much for us really. But
old birds fly on, charting courses based upon the seasons, the quality and
angles of the lights. Baubo knows that some of those if not all those old birds
from this world, especially the big ones with nests in the penthouse are like
the best tea closer to the ceiling of the sky.
Every day the sacred openings and entrances bring Mrs. Scattergood close
to her mother. Fledglings fly down before they fly up to the nest again.
~
Sure enough birds on the highway capping
the lights like finials are usually red tailed hawks. Where you are sure enough
to see one if you just look, is our gift from Grandmother Rachel. Sure enough
birds, Rachel’s granchildren. When they
take wing they’re taking her legacy along for the ride, their sure strokes,
pushing down on the air. Some would
still vilify Rachel for her work in the world. There’s money to be made and her
legacy still burns a hole in some pockets. But without her, the silence in
spring would be deadening.
~
Did we lose our connection to the land
and water as we grew up? Or did older
generations just not pass that connection on to us? Too in love with the new? Who keeps that intimate contact with what we
all love in this world? So much is
wrapped in packages and bought in stores.
But can we really forget that somewhere behind the curtain there's
soil? How Darwin loved his earth
worms. Building small cairns between the
blades of grass on groomed lawns. The secret kingdoms stipple the land and
provide the necessary elements to give us soil for gardening. Loam, peat moss and bogs, wetlands that
breathe and swell with the water table, wading birds, voles caught in an owl's
talons. Everything is connected. These
are the criss-crosses of life.
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