The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.
Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made
is star-stuff too?
– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –
dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.
Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
The line between sea, shore and sky is so thin, so silver; how it pulls me. I could almost walk on it and on through and on through and not know myself.
The elements are not so very different: sky become earth become sea become sky and back again. Here they're barely a notion, a token that happens and I watch and by my watching also participate.
And here in bluebells and campion is the rock where I watched the cuckoo so many years ago, before all the losing started; gorse, bluebells, cuckoo, self, even rock – the same and not the same. The cycles of love and loss and love again amplified by spring – how, in spring, can we not believe? – and I think how my mum used to say this was the hardest season: perhaps it's how we feel we don't measure up to all this growth and exuberance, stuck as we are in our regrets and our hopes, the past and the future, resisting growth and bloom if it means changing, giving up on what we know. How we atrophy and harden by not letting go, by not rolling with how it all is.
I've been watching that gull nesting in her trance tucked up against the chimney stack facing out to water, to the horizon, unmoving save to turn the eggs and turn herself on occasion; how hard it is to be that inward, that still, that unresisting to wind and weather. That's faith. That's belief in the future while doing what needs doing in the now.
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