Yeah, the Bird on the roof has been suffering from neglect. Probably coz, it doesnt seem like anybody reads these posts anyway. But that doesnt mean their not important.
I was walking along the creek this morning, reflecting on things. Should I move to the other side of the city? Find a different job? Interstate? Overseas? Make some sort of fresh start. I feel some kind of birth begining in me. A seed of motivation to change. But in what direction?
And what about religion? Have I been fooling myself all these years? Church doesnt look like it will be in the picture for the forseeable future? Does this leave God out of my life all together? Will Jesus get smaller and smaller in the background as he has for so many others? I hope not, But I feel that I have done all I can...If he wants ( something from) me he must make it clear to me. With out ambiguity.
In the park across the road, council workers have been planting eucalyptus treelings. Signs of something new? A fresh start?
I visited the humpy along the wall by the creek that separates the freeway from the Bike path. Somebody has gone to alot of trouble to build it. But it doesnt look like it has been recently inhabited. The empty coke bottles, chip wrappers and rubbish strewn around the mouth of the entrance do not appear to have been added to.
I ventured a little closer this time. Peering inside. It is well appointed as far as humpy's go. The kind of thing that you would consider a secret gold mine to explore if you stumbled on it as a kid. Inside I could see a ceramic bowl, and a coloured box. It may be a transitory residence for the city's homeless community, rather than the permanent accomodation of a single person.
It felt like violation to look to closely. On the bits of wood and chip board that had been used ( probalby dragged through suburbia in the middle of the night, collected from nature strips and hard rubbish collections) to hitch it all together, little notes had been written in biro. "Dave and Jennifer for eva..."
Seeing it also reminded me of some of the writing of Thomas Merton, in a section of his published journals, where he mentions a hermit that built a shelter out in the woods, away from any civilisation. Merton heard that the man had abandoned society because of "all these wars."
It also reminded me of how little people really need to survive. How ingenious the survival instinct can be. How creative. In our society, we wouldnt call this "living" But I wonder if for the annonynous builder of the humpy sandwhiched between the freeway and the creek, might not be freeer than many of us who lust after all the things that we believe give us meaning and life.
