Be The Magic [on Two Artists Tuesday]

birdy feet copy

A modern dinosaur hopped by our car. It left tracks in the snow otherwise we might have never known! What I love most about the local dinosaur population is that we never tire of seeing them or evidence of their travels. We have a dinosaur feeder just outside our sun room window and have wiled away more than a few hours watching them fly in for a seed fix.

I believe we are all the time surrounded by magic and miracles but remain largely blind to their existence. Birds are ancient. If you want to take a step back into the Mesozoic Era, just listen to the sound of a Sandhill Crane. Magic and miraculous.

Every time that I hear that there is only one true religion I’m tempted to take the speaker by the elbow and lead them outside to look at the night sky. If they understand what they are seeing – indeed, what they are experiencing – they should laugh aloud and clap their hands with glee at the utter absurdity of their smallness and the enormity of their unimaginable existence. “Astronomers estimate there are about 100 thousand million stars in the Milky Way alone. Outside that, there are millions upon millions of other galaxies also! “  In the midst of millions upon millions – an infinity beyond any of our smallish brain pans to comprehend – might it be a bit of hubris to claim ownership of the one true anything? Go outside and consider it. Miraculous. Magic.

The dinosaur tracks were gone the next day. Melted. My 30’s and 40’s are gone, too. Passing. Tracks merely.

I suppose it is our lot to squeeze ourselves into these too tight boxes. Rushing life most certainly will have you focus on your long list of things to accomplish, on the empty places pocking your wall of respect, the plaque engraved on your legacy. In the face of so much track-making, it takes a bit of effort, an intention of slowing down to pay attention, to listen to the bird song, to see that the dinosaur recently hopped by, to turn your face to the stars and fall with abandon into the night sky. To be the magic. Miraculous.

 

read Kerri’s blog post on SWEET TRACKS

 

jumping squirrel tracks website box copy

 

Follow Your Feet

744. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

The sun was out today. I took a break midafternoon, bought a coffee, found a sunny spot, and sat in it. I closed my eyes and sat facing the warmth, soaking it in. I was not alone. Periodically I opened my eyes and spied other sun sitters in their own special light pools. When I first moved to Seattle I made fun of sun sitters. I did not understand the people pouring out of the towers to find a warm wall or sunspot to occupy. Now I am one of them. I couldn’t get enough. There is not enough sun to slake my sun-thirst.

Earlier this morning as I walked down the hill, the sun was not yet up though the clouds were soft orange against a purple sky; the birds sang a spring song and I stopped to listen. They knew the sun was coming out to play. They knew the sun had one foot in spring and they needed to sing the other foot out of the winter circle. They sang with all of their might and invoked a gorgeous day. The sun finally committed: both feet are now firmly planted in the renewal.

After my date in the sunspot I walked, intending to go back to the studio but found my feet had no intention of leaving the sun. I told my feet that I had things to do, that I must be productive but they would have none of it. They pulled me to the sunny side of the street and followed every street I’d not yet trod. That seemed to be the criteria: 1) sun, and 2) unknown. As I gave in to the will of my rogue feet I decided that their criteria made much more sense than mine. Or, perhaps their criterion was a better match for my mine. I was certainly productive: I learned many new streets and my vitamin D quota escalated. I achieved a lot, too! My stress levels dropped significantly. I did not know they were up until they dropped. I cleared my mind as only a walk into the unknown can do. I talked to a woman preparing a neighborhood garden. I found a second sunspot and occupied it for an ample amount of time. Perhaps the birds invoked a bit of both-feet-in spring from me as well. As it turns out, my feet are very smart and the birds are very persuasive!

Pick A Fight With Birds

654. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Marilyn dope slapped me after my last post. She wrote, “PLEASE turn on the light rather than curse the darkness…go to the shore and fight with your birds.” After all, we did just mosey passed the solstice and are now in the early days of light’s return. A good bird fight would do me some good. As a side note, my favorite chuckle of the day: last night as a precaution to prepare his audiences for imminent Mayan end-of-the-world-ness, Andrew, artistic director of Jet City Improv, and his players stood at the doors of the theatre and passed out bags of air as people exited. One can never have too much air especially amidst so much concocted uncertainty.

In preparation for my bird fight I pulled on my warm clothes, my rain boots and coat. It’s wet out there and the birds with their fancy all weather feathers have an unfair advantage. I meant business so I left my glasses inside: I’m a better bird fighter when I can’t see what’s coming. Also, if I took a wing to the nose I didn’t want my glasses to break. They’re new and I’m told make me look smart – which implies that I don’t look smart without my glasses and it’s better strategy if the birds underestimate my intelligence and mistake me for a simple street fighter.

I splashed out to the end of the street, the place where the birds hang out and look for snacks: it is the shore of the Puget Sound and there are plenty of snack options for hungry birds to choose from. My foes, the crows, were sitting in the trees. It was raining really hard. I said some disparaging things about the design of crows (I made fun of their beaks) and not a single bird flinched. They just sat there bobbing on branches, looking out across the water. They didn’t even glance my way. I mocked them, flapping my arms, splashing through puddles, running in circles and perched on the breaker wall. Nothing. Not even a “caw.” So I did it again, flapping arms, puddle dancing, circle running with a necessary perch break to catch my breath.

A policeman stopped, rolled down his window and asked what I was doing. I told him that Marilyn suggested I come down to the shore and pick a fight with the birds. He asked me, “Who’s Marilyn?” I told him that she was a fantastic teacher in Nebraska. He wrinkled his brow and considered asking another question but instead offered a suggestion: “Maybe throw something at them. That usually works.” I told him it was a great idea and I’d give it some thought though secretly I didn’t really want to fight anymore. Splashing in the puddles was much more light-giving than bird fighting. The cop wished me luck, rolled up his window, and drove on. I jumped in puddles until my shoes were soaked, turned my face to the rain and let it wash all of that darkness away.