Notes:
Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy
and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles
for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,
or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air
as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine
and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.
— Mary Oliver, “Invitation” in A Thousand Mornings (New York: Penguin Books, 2013).
Photo by Joshua J. Cotten of male goldfinch, Backyard, Cordova, TN, USA in October 2021 via unsplash
Each babbling brook delivers the Buddha’s sermons. Countless thousands of poems flow, one after an other, day and night, Without a single word being spoken.
Open up to hear to each of Nature’s sounds. Reflect on Shunryu Suzuki-Roshi’s sage advice about how to sharpen your sense of hearing while you’re on an ocean beach: “There, if you’re alert, you can hear the tide turn.”
Remain alert to hear bird songs. Don’t think, Self-consciously, “I’m listening to that bird.” There’s no need for you to insert your Self back into that explicit role. You don’t need to be some person inside who remains actually conscious of striving to do the listening. Instead, allow your ears just to hear its notes directly. Just Hearing.
Consider all the other delightful surprises of be coming a bird watcher. Gaze up to follow distant birds in flight. Notice how raptors soar effortlessly, aided by the wind. In contrast, flocks of shorebirds, like the golden plover, wheel, twist, and dive in unison. Bird sightings tap into our most primitive instincts and sentiments.
— James H. Austin, from “Meditating Selflessly: Practical Neural Zen”
Gull @ Daybreak. 6:25 am, Feb 21, 2022. 30° F, feels like 22° F. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT. More pictures from this morning here.
6:10 a.m.
Dark. 12° F, feels like Nasty. Wind cuts through all the layers. Shiver.
I’m driving down Weed Avenue, eyes scan The Cove.
When she’s here, even in the blackest of Nights, there’s no missing that White Coat, those 25,000 feathers, that Beacon.
“Sadness, I need your black White wing.” (PN*)
I drive on, now 500 yards from the park.
There!
I pull off the highway, grab the camera, and approach.
I offer her a soft, short whistle.
She pops her head up, “Hey there Mister, All Good Here.”
Then, she tucks her head back under her wing, and back to sleep.
I pause watching her for a moment, and then glance up at Polaris, shimmering overhead.
Yes, O.K. All good here too.
This World can keep on, keep spinning on its axis.
Notes:
5:35 a.m.
Dark. Wet. Rain. 43° F. I pan through the hour by hour Weather Channel Forecast:
5 am: “Light rain.”
6 am: “Light rain.”
7 am: “Light rain.”
8 am: “Light rain.”
and so on, hourly until 7 pm.
“Wintry mix likely for the next several hours.”
I sit up in bed. No chance, you are going out in that.
Mind drifts to my Swan. She’s out there. Rain, raining down on her coat.
I google ‘swans’ to find Biology of Swans. “Swans have about 25,000 feathers on their body – the vast majority of these are tiny, little feathers situated round the head and neck.”
Somehow this puts me at ease. For a moment.
25,000 feathers must keep her warm, as she dives to feed in the frigid waters of The Cove. She can’t be cold. She can’t be hungry. 25,000 feathers.
I pull the covers up, and close my eyes. Damn it. I need to get to The Cove. [Read more…]
…and there she sleeps this morning. No mate. Frozen ice surrounds her, and she rests undisturbed. At Peace.
I’m looking out at her. Mr. Canadian Tough-Guy. Wearing T-shirt – – Sweater over T-Shirt – – Hoodie over Sweater – – Northface Down Parka jacket over Hoodie – – Hood up – – Snowpants – – Long johns – – Sweatpants – – Smart Wool Socks – – Sorel Boots – – Smart Wool Gloves.
And I’m still shivering, yearning to get back in the car. A car that’s running, heater blowing.
How all this works?
Beyond my comprehension.
Miracle. All of it.
6:55 a.m. 15° F (- 9° C), feels like 1° F (- 17° C), wind gusts up to 28 mph. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT.
Post title Inspired by Albert Einstein’s quote: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle.
Chasing birds to get high
My head is in the clouds
Chasing birds to get by
I’m never coming down…
— Foo Fighters, from “Chasing Birds” (2021)
Photo: DK @ Daybreak. 7:09 am, December 27, 2021. 30° F (-1° C), feels like 22° F (-6° C). Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT.
Some gulls soared in the air above me.
They seemed almost to be enjoying the warmth and stillness.
A stillness so seldom here.
— Karl Ove Knausgaard, The Morning Star: A Novel. (Penguin Press, September 28, 2021)
Photo: DK @ Daybreak. 6:57 am, October 19, 2021. 45° F. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT
Notes:
More from this morning @ DK @ Daybreak. 4:50 to 5: 40 am. June 27, 2021. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT
In the silence the soothing sights and sounds of the marsh, the waving grasses flecked with butterflies, the distant soughing of the sea, the trailing ribbons of birdsong and the calls of the geese and gulls, could come into focus. ‘It’s good to sit and watch this gentle world,’ L said. ‘We tire ourselves out so.’
— Rachel Cusk, Second Place: A Novel (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, May 4, 2021)
DK Photo @ Daybreak. 4:52 to 5:34 am, May 3, 2021. 39° F. Cove Island Park, Stamford, CT.
Live & Learn 