Four things in the World

The sun was still high as I stepped from the hermitage, but waning, it cast the trunks of ghost gums and other pale limbed trees in orange. The grass across the road has come up green all of a sudden. Two weeks ago, it was bone dry.

Four things I noticed in the world today.

• A gum tree with the lower part of its trunk dead and grey while the rest of it twisted up and away beyond the roofs.
• A flock of green parrots darting through the trees in the park
• A vapour trail hanging high in the distance over the studio apartment blocks.
  
• Half a pale white ghost of a moon in the northern edge of sky.
  

Bird on a Roof

undated notes from last years journal...

Through the gums across the road, the sun is setting and the sky is all white through the trees. A willy wagtail dropped onto the telephone wires as I sat at the picnic table, satisfied by my evening meal. the evening is appropriate for this time of year. Very warm. Pleasantly so. First hot evening this month.

the willy wagtail is cast above me in silhouette. His tail waggles to and fro, carving back and forth in the air. He dips down on the wires, like a little acrobat or tightrope walker. Clinging on with his little talons on his splayed little twig legs. He dips back up again. His arrow like head and his white eyebrows giving him the look of an angry little Italian man.

Then, he flits up, arcs back through the trees in the front yard and alights on the apex of our roof. Chattering away. He's all by himself up there. A bird on a roof.

Whtie Necked Herons and Exercise Bikes

There was the same white Heron stalking the shallows under the freeway yesterday. But I am not sure if it was a white necked Heron( like this one) or an easern Egret. Egrets seem smaller than this, but the bird I saw under the bridge was all white, like the Eastern Egret. I cycled past three different humpies( At least, what I thought were humpies) on my travels along the creek and coast.

There have been some improvements to the large corrugated one near the White Herons home.. as I sailed past in the January heat, I did a double take when out of the corner of my eye, I thought I spotted an exercise bike among the broken chairs, chip wrappers and bluestone rubble under the bridge. Positioned parallel to the creek, facing north, it was.

By the popular strip of beach that ribbons its way for several kilometres, through trendy beach side suburbs, someone had pitched a tent in the bushes at the edge of a large coastal park where families come to have barbeques and play holiday cricket. An old rusty bicycle was shoved in the bushes.

Close by the corrugated iron humpy with the exercise bike, a very crude dwelling had been erected by the fence of the train yards, on the other side of the creek, with a blue plastic tarpolin, and bits of wood to hold it in place.

How many of these dwellings exist in a city of four million people? How many ghosts stalk the edges fo society like white herons stalking the muddy banks of a ditch? Their beauty, humaness and tears unseen, and unoticed by passing traffic.

I discovered another humpy this week. This one was much larger. Made from scrap sheets of corrugated iron. Situated under a bridge in a criss cross of over passes and freeways. The area itself is industrial. With train yards on the left and buildings on the right. The creek, at this point in its journey out to sea, begins to open out and become swampy. Occasionally you see a large white herron stalking its banks. The beauty of Creation can grab your attention in the grimiest settings. The only real traffic along this section of the path are cyclists. The only sounds, that of freeway traffic overhead and trains. I wonder what Christmas is like living in a humpy? Do you pine for all the trappings of our consumer society as you gaze into the fire at night?

Some Birds Are More Adaptive Than Others

There is a Pied cormorant ( above) waddling across the beach. It looks out of place among the fleet footed silver gulls clustered in little groups along the shore, which stand on one sauce coloured leg. Eyelids fluttering and feathers ruffling in the on shore breeze. He waddles among them, like a stranger in his own land while they float in the shallows and small sandbars, which the little white caps roll over, before converging again in deeper water, and creeping up the sand with wet, disappearing fingers.

What do cormorants eat? Fish mainly. Silver gulls are far more adaptive. They have adapted to humanity and coastal societies. Scavengers. thriving on the waste of our hubris.

Cormorants retain much of their inherent nature. Still requiring a distinctly oceanic habitat. They cant pilfer scraps from pie wrappers. They dive deep into the sea. Catching fish and crusteaceans.Otherwize, what? Will you ever see a pied cormorant perched atop a bin, or stalking the outskirts of a footy oval? I doubt it. Some birds are more adaptive than others.

Summer by the Creek

I stepped outside yesterday and noticed that the Apricot tree is already laden with golf ball sized fruit. Not yet yellow. Speckled with sunburn. They hide among the heart shaped foliage. Peeking out like small cherubs. Peeking out like love. Saying, "Life is still here." It has not yet been sucked up and spat out by darkness, or reduced to dust by the long dry summer of shame.

Last summer Frank complained that there was hardly any fruit to harvest. It sent a cold shiver of metaphor through me. Jesus cursed the fig tree and it withered. The Apricot tree lay bare and fruitless. When I caught sight of the laden branches murmuring in the breeze, yesterday, I must admit I was relieved. I still hope for harvest fruit.

After the hottest november day on record, I walked along the creek at dusk in a southerly direction. Battalions of invisible insects hovering above the dead grass in columns got into my mouth and nose. I spat them out like dried herbs. Everything is so dry. The creek is almost empty. A mere trickle. You can see where the water mark has dropped along the bank. Where the water once coursed, flattening the grass into snaking ribbons. Now set dry and brittle, crumbling at the touch. Rust coloured rocks exposed to the baking november sun. No longer slippery with moss. Skeletal bodies of ancient shopping trolleys protrude from the sediment, wrapped in ribbons of flotsam. They gape at me like yawning skulls.

The Humpy part II

One day last week, I was wandering along the path by the creek again. It was the first time I had been a long the northern section that goes by my house for a while. Always curious for signs of movement or change in the humpy, I craned my neck as I rounded the bend, with the taste of pine needles on my tounge.

I was shocked to see that the humpy has had its roof smashed in, and the blue tarpolin ripped from its moorings. This was done, either as an act of random violence, or possibly by the owner/user.

Unfortunately, the former option seems to be the most likely.

The Humpy

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.

Look to the Ant

I am just an ant wandering across the page of Gods immensity with its antenna in the air. I dont have a clue how big things really are. I'm just looking for food.

The Apricot Tree

"I found you under the apricot tree,
and woke you up to love"

- Song of Songs

In summer, it is lush with green leaves and an abundance of fruit. But as the days grow shorter, and the months grow colder, it appears to be dying. The lush green leaves turn yellow, and drop to the ground. Any fruit that has not been picked lies rotting on the ground. Any passer by may consider the tree to be ugly, a picture of desolation.

The absence of life in nature does not illicit joy in the human soul. But we can all understand how refreshing it is to lay our eyes on green fields and carpets of flowers on the countryside.

But the barren apricot tree by the old broken down fence does not always inspire such sentiment. If only we could see beyond the surface of things! We all know that the apricot tree is not dead just because there appears to be an absence of life in its branches. Its roots lie in the cold, dark earth, doing mysterious, unseen, silent work.

Modern science can explain it rationally, yes, but is it any wonder earlier, less enlightened generations considered the mystery of such things? The hunger for enlightenment as a means of completion in the modern mind has destroyed the capacity for mystery.

The soul is the roots of a person doing unseen, silent work beneath the perception of the naked eye or the rational mind. Of course, the soul does not do its own work, but is fed by the nutrients in the dark earth.

Plants require darkness to produce growth - hiddenness. When they are exposed, away from the snug damp beneath the earth, they are starved. And then, they truly die.

Autumn 2006

I was reminded of the changing seasons again this afternoon, while I was peering out the flyscreen door watching four or five small, mottled brown birds pecking at the grass.

They were moving along the lawn in a little band. Foraging for goodness knows what... Seeds, worms or bugs.

A small bird with a faintly green breast dived out of a tree and somersaulted mid air, catching an insect, then alighted on the stunted lemon tree.

Balls of erratic insects hovered in the air above the grass and driveway, illuminated by the slowly diving afternoon sun.

The first leaves have fallen from the Apricot tree by the fence. The acidic yellowing of their plump green leaves foretell the coming of winter. The seasons change. This is my second autumn in the hermatige. Leaves fall and rot and soak the earth with nutrients. Then bud and flower the following spring. Growing again. Each seasons death, and each seasons dawn, I am asking the same questions...

How/will I be fruitful?

What is wrong with me?

Will I ever be fruitful in the way I dreamed I would?

Is Gods all conquering love a reality in my life?

A few faint threads of a spiders web are discernable. Illuminated by the gold sun that slowly drowns in the calm ocean of sky.

the left side of my face is tender to the touch. It can be hard to believe that a deep, all conquering love surrounds you, and lives in the deepest recesses of your heart, when everything in your life looks to the naked eye to be so loveless.

Asking the Birds For Forgiveness

"Every day and every hour, every minute, examine yourself and watch over your self to make sure your appearance is seemly. You pass by a little child, you pass by spitefully, with foul language and a wrathful heart; you may not have noticed the child, but he has seen you, and your face, ugly and profane, will perhaps remain in his defensless heart. You may not know it, but you have perhaps sown an evil seed in him and it may grow, and all because you did not foster in yourself a disceet, active love.

Brothers, love is a teacher, but one must know how to aquire it, for it is aquired with difficulty, it is dearly bought, one must spend a great deal of labour and time on it, for we must love not only for a moment and fortuitously, but forever. Anyone can love by accident, even the wicked can do that. My young brother asked forgiveness of the birds; it may seem absurd, but it is right none the less, for everything, like the ocean flows, flows and comes into contact with everything else: it may be madness to beg forgiveness of the birds, but, then, it would be easier for the birds, and the child, and the animal if you were yourself more pleasant than you are now. Just a little easier anyhow."

- Fyodor Dostoyevski
The Brothers Karamazov

Autumn 2005

The day is waning now. Dusk settles. The cement outside my door is cold underfoot. The grass is cold and expectant of frost. Birds no longer fossick in the grass, stalking the dry, warm earth.

Now they sit in the high, fragile branches of trees. They contemplate the setting sun. The branches are lit by the gold fingers of the sun. A flame with days end.

Four birds, small enough to cup in your palm alight, one after the other in the top branches of the tree outside my door. They all look west, towards the setting sun. What do they see? They are as small as sparrows, but their beaks are a little longer, their bodies less plump. One of them lets out a shrill little exclamation. Others preen and look about.

Deserts

Dryness promotes the formation of flower buds...

flowering is, after all, not an aesthetic contribution,

but a survival mechanism.

- Ann Haymond Zwinger, the Mysterious lands

Painting taken from: The illustrated Jesus Through the Centuries

Jaroslav Pelikan

The Faith of Nature

In the semi darkness of my room this morning, the awful squawking of native birds woke me up. In the lounge room after breakfast, flicking through old journal entries, I noticed how little faith those entries contained. How naive was the little faith I did posess. I wondered at what Gods response was to this ranting and raving. "Even darkness is light to you."

As I pondered these things on the couch, a strange accapella chorus of crows started up outside. It went on for a bit, broken by the occasional solo. and I craned my head curiously in its direction.

The crows chorus died away and all that was left was the faint, subtley sweet notes of smaller birds puncturing the gathering freeway traffic.

Mostly, I move through my days without ever noticing such subtle sounds. I am lucky enough to live in a setting that affords me more opportunity to notice and appreciate such sounds of nature. Such quiet notes of Grace singing sweetly to me underneath the frantic noise and freeway traffic of my life.

In a way, the city is like a metaphor for a lack of faith. A 'tower of Babel.' Everything in the city is full of self and pride. Everything is a monument to human abilities. Human effort driving incessantly and desperately towards.... what? So frantic in its attempt to achieve things for itself, the city is salvation by works.

Nature is more like faith. Free and unfettered. Not tied down to job descriptions. it lives and grows quite consciously and purposefully, but without anxiety and frantic worry. Birds, and indeed, all of nature, are careless inthe care of God. Growing and living with slow patience. Most of it unseen, but producing much in the way of fruit.

I cannot discern any bird calls now. the mid mornning freeway traffic sounds as if its getting heavier. What ever Bird song remains, notes of Grace trying to break through all my frantic, faithless action, they are being drowned out by the gathering noise of the city.

Autumn 2005

The sun is warming the cold earth. The afternoon is spreading languidly like warm water. the leaves are yellowing on the apricot tree. They come off in your hand with the slightest touch.

Acrross the road there is a game of footy being played. All around... to the east and south west, traffic is zooming up and down the freeway. Cyclists are peddling and people are walking their dogs on the overpass.

Is it an accident that I find myself here? In this Hermitage provided by chance? Maybe. I sense a whiff of providence. Yes, it's lonely and isolated. There is alot of space between me and the world. Literal space. Fifty metres of grass and parkland seperate me from the frantic action of the world. I watch it all go past.

I turn and look at my ramshackle room. The now leafless tree outside the front door. I remember that bird sitting there a couple of months ago cleaning itself in the branches. I cannot forget that bird for some reason!

The lawn by Franks front window is carpeted with yellow leaves from the tree outside his bedroom window. He only swept them up last week, and here they are again.

The Tonic of Memory

The five unchangable realities;

1. Favour
2. Unfailing Love
3. Promise
4. Mercy (Grace)
5. Compassion

These jewels of God are the dawn of peace that comes to me in the blanket of night. Like "the dawn to a bird." There is alot of birds around here. You can hear their chatter. Living notes. I picked up the feather ( looks like it came from a pigeon) from the grass under the tree. Perfectly formed. there are many lessons here. I dont think I will regret coming to this place. The sun comes and goes between tufts of flossy cloud.

The lesson of resting upon revealed truth.

...I twitter away

Welcome! This is a blog about birds. Birds sitting on roofs, in trees, singing in the night. Its about people too!

"First, as the sparrow likes high places, so the soul rises to the highest contemplation.

Second, as the sparrow turns its face toward the wind, the soul turns toward the 'Spirit of Love', which is God.'

Third, the soul is solitary in contemplation, as the sparrow is alone on the housetop.

Fourth, as the sparrow sings sweetly, so does the soul sing praises of the 'sweetest love.'

And finally john says the sparrow is of 'no particular colour,' ( Gerald May - The dark night of the Soul)