The Change Of Things; The Way Of Things

He was aware of the season’s arrival, was conscious of the changes, but only in a rudimentary way.

For he didn’t know the names of the trees, nor of the birds, but he knew that those geese were preparing to leave, without him even knowing that they were geese.

They were obeying the same instinctive compulsion that they always did, long before anyone named them, and those birds didn’t even know that they were geese, either, for they just recognised each other, as they did in the times when other people, long gone, called them by different names, names now forever forgotten and lost.

But the days remain the same, the signs remain the same, it’s the language that rises and falls. It has always been our wont to label the landscape and creatures around us. Make things familiar and relatable.

He watched them go, taking to the skies, never knowing where they would alight, but trusting deeply in the way of things, and the day that they’d return.

Shamanic September

I wrote this in 2017. The magic still remains.

City Jackdaw

September already. How soon the seasons pass.
Harvest time, fruits of the earth. Our spirits warm with the russet colours outside. I took the dog for a run over the fields this morning. Wind-frenzied trees could not dislodge raucous crows, shy jays, and their more cocksure magpie cousins. Though these are the early days, there is definitely a sense of being on the cusp of autumn.
Soon we will see the squirrels working overtime among the toadstools and wild flowers, the martins, swallows and other migrants gathering to make the long journey back to African shores.
Much to my wife’s distress, daddy long legs seem to be everywhere. One got in as I went out with the dog (again) last night, as my better half was busy preparing a meal for the next day. I said “Don’t harm it, I will catch it when I get back in”.
On my…

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A Glimpse Into Tuesday

I think I need more sleep. I put ketchup in the bowl today instead of washing up liquid.

As we’d say around here, it’s been chucking it down all day. Which translates as ‘it’s been pouring with rain’.

And so, I spent the afternoon inside, watching the first of this two-part documentary:

It passed the time while confined to the house, and I love most of the artists that are covered in it.

Music illustrates our individuality. It’s as though you don’t pick the kind of music that you like, the music picks you. You can have the same background as me, we can share the same context and life experiences, but what turns you on can turn me off, and vice versa. Certain styles speaks to each of us differently. We react to that which moves us the most.

August is coming to a close. Summer is coming to a close. With the night closing in, I’ve started this new book.

Some time back I read and enjoyed Johnson’s short novella, Train Dreams, and thought I’d give his collection of short stories a try.

I have heard of a woman who claimed that she once fell in love with a man because he recommended this book to her. Again – individuality. He searched his memory of every book that he’d read before, and somehow struck the jackpot. Found the one for the one.

The pressure, though, of getting it right. I wouldn’t fancy my chances.

Anyway, that’s enough for now, I’m only one story in. The rain is still tapping on my window.

Eternal Echoes Need Eternal Reminders

I first encountered John O’Donohue when I purchased his book Anam Cara, which is Gaelic for ‘soul friend’. I’m a sucker for anything seeming to hark back to my ancestral past.

Described as a ‘poetic priest with the soul of a pagan,’ he certainly had a way with words, and I made a note to check out some of his other books.

And of course, I forgot.

Then tonight I came across this reminder, an excerpt from his book Eternal Echoes, and made my second note. I’ll act on it this time.

Probably.