To sit somewhere beautiful and still not find words for saying something that is not so beautiful is kind of sad. The Freudian psychiatrists who promoted the therapy culture of lie-down-on-the-couch-and-talk have led us to believe that we find it easier to voice uncomfortable and anxiety-causing thoughts in a surrounding that is non-judgmental, accepting and peaceful. This place is way more than that in a lot of ways. But then again, life is not the way we are led to believe it is. I'll describe the place anyway, in a hope that I start describing myself in the process.
There is a tree on the far right side of my sitting position with whom I feel a certain kinship. It has multiple parasitic plants wrapped over its entire length and on its leaves at the top. These plants look extremely attractive on that tree, as if a bride wearing a jewelry. But that 'beauty' costs that plant a lot. According to Botanists, those parasitic plants suck the life out of that tree without contributing anything towards its growth other than that splendor which most people don't normally see. There are three conclusions that can be made from this sight.
1, Sometimes what makes you beautiful and unique, hurts you the most.
2. The irony about that beauty is that you can't see it on our own. Our only source for watching that beauty in a reflection are the eyes of the people around you. Eyes that know how to see and are awake.
3. Often times, receiving the 'privilege' of that beauty is not a choice. Embracing it, is. But it involves a lot of awakened eyes around. Or at least some.
I love that tree because it embraces that burden so beautifully. It's now being reflected in the water gathered in the open air theatre after the rain. I am sitting somewhere in the middle of those stairs. The tree that I just described stands in the context of a sky filled with moving clouds and a fading light. Watching a sunset here would have been a luxury but it happens to occur every day on my extreme right side between which stands a Gothic building. That building is often more beautiful than that sunset.
Sitting on those cold, welcomingly coarse stairs, I am happy and satisfied. Sort of.
Few moments back, I saw numerous birds wandering in the sky and around me in the now drying amphitheater. The movement of three birds caught my eye in particular.
There was a bird carrying a very small, broken branch in its beak, flying towards a place presumably its home. Or a place where its home will be. And that branch will be an addition to the security and authenticity of that home, or it may become its founding stone. That struck me as something meaningful. If we suppose that there is a place and a union that human beings create which is called a home and family, and it is different from a house and a group, that is how it is made. They gather the broken pieces displaced by the storms and upheavals, brought to them or found by them through accident or design and then integrate it in their own lives. Permanently or temporarily. A law of physics that I read somewhere says that energy can’t be created or destroyed. It only changes from one form to another form. In the same way, may be, homes and families are created by the destruction, change of form and by the gathering of that change of form and its integration such as that bird had gathered that thin branch that once might have been a part of a glorious tree. It would have had different functions back then. It was adorned by leaves and sunlight used to visit it every morning. But presumably displaced by a storm, it found itself utterly alone, broken and useless, waiting to be decomposed. The bird however saw that out of home branch and would have thought about the way it can strengthen and be a part of its own home.
Homes thus, a place of comfort, certainty and nurture, are formed by utter displacement, uncertainty and wreckage.
The other bird that I observed was flying at a great speed towards me. Suddenly it saw me (Presumably. Apparently, I am not visible from a distance) and turned back in midair, without even changing its position, at the same speed. That was remarkable. I had never seen a bird do that. Other than the deeper understanding of how repellant I am, even to the birds, I can’t decipher any other meaning from that.
Then there was this bird I saw whose wings were shining in the sunlight. That bird was flying effortlessly, barely moving those beautiful shining wings.
This sight left me with a simple question. Can life be so effortless? And the answer was, when you are flying so high, may it is.