Sunday Report #3 - Whoosh Whoosh Wonders
If a person spends all his emotion on his own body and states of mind, he is mentally diseased, and the disease is called narcissism. It seems to me, analogously, that the whole human race spends too much emotion on itself. The happiest and freest man is the scientist investigating nature, or the artist admiring it; the person who is interested in things that are not human. Or if he is interested in human things, let him regard them objectively, as a very small part of the great music. Certainly humanity has claims, on all of us; we can best fulfil them by keeping our emotional sanity; and this by seeing beyond and around the human race. -Robinson Jeffers
Weekly Sunday sit down by the lake. Listening to the crows and thinking about agoristic, inter-generational micro co-operatives. It rained much of the morning but now everything is still and the sun glows holy good through the thinning cloud. A squirrel rages for no reason that I can discern, unless I’m the reason.
It’s been a week of grief. So many old people struggling. We live in a system (how did we come to live in a system?) where too many people are infected with fatalistic individualism. We sever from relationships too easily. Old people stubbornly shuffling around their big houses, weeds encroaching into once flourishing gardens. People out here try to catch each other as best as they can, but I’m one of the youngest on this stretch of road. There are few children living here, and fewer teenagers. Too many who need catching, not enough arms.
(BOOM. The rifle shot echoes over the lake boom boom boom. The crow call knits itself between them. A Wagnerian hunting season moment).
Meanwhile, so many young humans, those with strong bodies and no capital, journey their best years surrounded by concrete and screens, screens, screens. Their psyches turn to mush while their minds forever jolt along the consumer track. Forever? Inside the screen, it feels like forever. But there are really only a few years left. Even 50 years is only a few in the grand scheme of things. How long is a life, anyway?
There are so many good crow sounds. So much whoosh whoosh glory. Some of the clouds are still dipping their fingers into the forest. They don’t drift, just dangle. Watching them, I suspect they’ll either lift back up into the collective or dissipate like a Joni Mitchell army: pale poets dispatched from bus stations, bound for tiny towns and dive bars, places where hearts are broken and people could just use a song sung by a beautiful woman. That’s how the clouds move today. Skirting the edges.
A hooded merganser has flown past, whistle wings above the water, its head perfectly still, eyes focused. I’m craving another crow. It’s been several minutes. All the ones I hear are far away. I need a close-up caw. I got a loon call & echo and a fish splash instead. Chipmunk proclamation. Tiny slurp of ripples over stone. Distant chainsaws announce firewood season. A moment of near silence.
A crow has whoosh-whooshed over my head. There’s something about that sound that makes my mind feel like washboard, in a good way. Science could no doubt explain exactly the part of my brain that’s reacting, and break all the Beauty down into more manageable pieces, but I’ll stick with my washboard feeling. There’s more gratitude in it. Science may have plenty of wonder, but it lacks gratitude, so I’ll never invite it to move in full time. We’re acquaintances, not kin.
I’ve come up, drawn by Oscar’s barking. Apparently whatever it was wasn’t important after all. He lays on the gravel driveway, grey on grey on a grey day.
I will make tea and prepare the lunch, which will feature my mom’s cock-a-leekie soup made with home-grown chicken and veggies, and my whole wheat basil bread made with bc red fife flour, local honey and our own basil.
Later...There is a new grief report rolling through the neighbourhood this evening. I went for my walk and let the Beauty of the day prevail. Beauty is always prevailing, we just fail to notice much of the time. My aspen coven is nearly leafless now, and the yellow coins that remain rattle their swan song with every tiny breeze. The frost will be here soon. I inspect the rose hips and wonder if I should have picked already. This year I’ll heed the herb book and see.
It seems these weekly sessions are becoming my “thing.” I like writing outside. It let’s me stir my thoughts with the sensual happenings around me. I send warm wishes of a colour and gratitude-filled October.
Omi’s exercise for spiritual improvement
Spend time outside without headphones. Make a list of things you hear. What human sounds, what natural ones? Try to get to somewhere with little human activity/impact. Do the exercise again, listing the things you hear. Pay attention to how your body feels after each session.