of bird, land, and the process of never ending becoming
{3} interwoven: creatures of myth, they hang in the sky like questions
Welcome to the third of our interwoven adventures. I am so glad you’re here. Today, we are speaking of birds, mythologies and weaving all of us together- a way to both deepen our understandings and to re-enchant the land.
time telling
My bird bath is full without me pouring water from the tap || The southerly wind has again come through to meet us || Trees almost bare of their leaves, or certainly on their way.
noticings
The gentle ticking of a heater in the background, in a room that’s mostly silent. One, two, then three Tūī’s landing in the tree. The first puffing herself out, making it clear there’s no room for the rest. A slick outside deck, wet with rain. An almost naked apple tree. A half-eaten block of Lindt chocolate lying on my desk. 70%. 80% I find a bit too much. Passionfruit and vanilla tea in a fake wooden-looking keepcup that I’m waiting to cool down. My teal notebook, half open, an invitation for more words. Stratus clouds, a term I like using more than fog.
small stories
wings
At first, only silence. Or so it would appear. There is the distant sound of the Pacific. A low, rumbling hum. The air smells like poetry, of damp and soil. Of ever falling leaves, released of their duty to the trees.
A woman sits, eyes open, face turned towards the sky. She leans against a wooden wall, the slats of Macrocarpa, fragmented, still whispering the secrets of the tree. She is held, upright, an arboreal spine.
Then, the sky. A gentle pitting on her cheeks, messages falling like seeds dispersed by wings. The birds are saying things, conversations formed in orchestral lines. The Kōwhai. Her name speaking of her heart. The te reo Māori word for ‘yellow’, a colourful explosion, contained and waiting for the spring. The Kānuka, the mothering tree, whose nature is both solid and tender. The Fuchsia, the largest of her type, the biggest tree Fuchsia in the world. A giggling, laughing, chattering assortment, carry their gossip on the wind.
The Tūī’s speak of the nectar, the human placed temptation of the sugar feeders hung high in the branches of the Wattle tree. The Flax continues to drop seeds from her weather weary pods, the Parrots greedy, grateful, balancing their brightly feathered selves on her outreached arms. The Bellbird tracks behind the flight path of the Tūī, her wings an airborne moss, swiftly blending into the background, out of sight of eyes not specific in their focus. A hop, a look around, a taking off in flight. The Fantail’s aeronautics are a tease, darting, flitting, snatching at the insects in the air. Close enough to think you might be able to touch them, their small bodied selves remaining always and just slightly out of reach. A vision, a dream you can never quite grab onto, and that all at once was never yours to own.
The air creates a stillness from the base of Mopanui out across the Estuary stretching to Seacliff. The mountain’s skirts collect the swirling sound and throw them back, a panacousticon for everyone around.
The words, the songs, arrive. Close your eyes, they say. Hear what is offered- differently.
The Tūī- predictably- choose themselves as the ones who should begin. Welcome to a world where the spaces strung up between notes are an illusion, that the gaps are filled with music that the mechanics of your ears are not sophisticated enough for you to hear.
Let your imagination play for you our song. Your memory, as we have told you, will not be serving you correctly. Did you know that you listen into air that holds a thousand different notes of us, the Tūī? Perhaps your mind is recounting five or ten? Remind yourself of this- that a world exists beyond that which you immediately sense.
The fantail, in he flies. Two or three. A fluttering in fact. They are not so much interested in words- there are things to do, places to see- but their flight path speaks to the air of lightness. A world may exist beyond your knowing, they begin. Don’t hold onto it too tightly, they continue, with again unspoken words. The movement of their tail, sign language. Their landings a gentle trail of braille.
From afar, more feathered voices chime.
They say: Each layer of sky carries a flying body differently. There are more ways to be held by the unseen than you can count.
They say: Even the tiniest bird with the smallest wings will have moments of suspended rest.
They say: That beauty always serves a purpose.
They say: In the end, everybody flies, and in living, everyone clings tightly to the branch.