Sleep Less. Think More.

5.12.09

In Search of Songbirds

The sun was bright and the wind was warm enough to enjoy. Today is a day that gains its strength from its cold predecessors; the first real day of spring. The first day, when the tired white blankets of snow have recessed far enough to give the earth breath. Finally, I can see grass. I can feel the warmth of the sun and I can hear hidden birds singing me on my way. I’ve got a happiness growing like an apple just beneath my throat. On my way to nowhere in particular, I’m walking simply to enjoy the weather. I think of what a wonderful gift this world is, how even the most ardent pessimist would work up a sweat trying to deny the happiness growing with the grass. As I walk birds form a corridor of chirps, one with the bare branches they sing from. I try to catch sight of one, but alas, they seem to have burrowed back into their trees, seeds for tomorrow's tune.

Anyway, the petal is always prettier than the root. As I walk on, I let my mind follow. I start wondering what lies beneath everything I see. Elusive birds are only the tip of a much larger mystery. I wonder what gives rise to this pleasure coming from the earth. Where does it exist? Metaphors of flowers can only get one so far, but perhaps that’s far enough. I take a deep breath, fully immersed in the pleasant mysteries of the earth. Indeed the moment proves to be more than its rationale could ever, as I continue on, open to everything the breeze brings my way. I walk, following an invisible thread, my mind a floating leaf. I’ve come to a park. Without really knowing why (perhaps there is no reason) I sit down at a bench. From this spot chirps and swaying shadows fall one into the other, as I feel the minutes meld into hours being marked down silently on a watch left at home. A couple has sat down across from me. The man seems restless, unhappy with the decision to sit down. "I still prefer the winter. It’s so much simpler in the winter."

"What is, dear?" The woman seemed used to such cryptic pessimism. She was busy looking for the birds hidden in a nearby tree.

"In the winter the world, it’s like a blank easel. There aren’t as many distractions. I find it easier to work in the winter, uninterrupted from the simpler people of this city, all struck with that fever that seems to creep hidden underneath the first half decent day." She didn’t seem patient enough for this, offering no response. "The sun is still the sun in winter, the leaves and birds are just sleeping. Why is it these fools aren’t so enthused each day, when it is so clear that the earth never actually changes?"

"They’re not hurting anyone, dear. A smile doesn't do anything but good, even on a strangers face."

"They are hurting me. They have their marches, their rallies, their charity drives. Save the owls, always recycle, plant more trees. They’re always pulling my attention from my studio out to their imaginary holy land. Since when did human activity, or any form of destruction for that matter, exist outside of nature?"

It seemed she was as perplexed as I was. She put on a half smile and just looked at a patch of grass. "Are they wrong for being happy, then?"

"They aren’t wrong, they are just foolish. Find happiness in all of the earth, or none. One can’t pick favourites like this, or at least not without acknowledgement of their arbitrariness. What is it about a whale that makes it worth more than a cancer? It’s selfishness under the guise of humble servitude.” He fell silent with a sharp and sour look. “They use ‘we’ as a polite cover up of a strictly ‘I’ mentality." He seemed to have had this on his mind for some time. He was visibly worked up. During his speech he had procured a cigar from his pocket, and was now spitting up smoke, angry like a blizzard.

The whole time I had been growing more and more impatient with this man. How dare he call a love of one's environment selfish. What was selfish was to think the earth existed as an obstacle of one’s work. He was the one who was picking favourites, not us. What was it about his work that was so important? I was so worked up I got up from my bench and asked him exactly that. He was quite surprised. I imagined in the look he gave me I saw a realization akin to love. This man had realized he wasn’t an island; I had brought him down from his ivory tower. He looked at me and seemed to think for a while. Perhaps I had done it, I had shown him his error. He was wrong to say those things. One can’t help but feel happy on days like today. How could it be any clearer that this world is worth protecting, that we should ‘plant more trees’, as he had put it.

He interrupted my thoughts and asked me if stealing a loaf of bread was always wrong. Although a bit surprised, I was feeling generous, and so I played along. "I think it would be wrong most of the time. There would, of course, be certain circumstances that I think anyone would agree excuse such actions." The man was staring at the ground a few feet from us. He didn't seem to even be listening.

"Could the same be said of cutting down a tree?" I knew this was coming. I had seen it a mile away. I was quick with my response.

"But never for cutting down the last tree. A tree is useful, but the idea of a tree is more so. If we lose touch with what a tree is, we lose what makes us human." The man was lost for words. He just sat there, not moving. I wonder if he even blinked.

Then, slowly, with a calm smile, he responded. "You speak of humanity, but that word must feel clumsy in your mouth as a taboo. What makes us human is our humanity, it is us. We were never given anything from this world. Some just choose to discredit themselves, their own creative powers, through an odd sort of ascetic, self-limiting faith. Wake up sleeper, we are at war with this earth. It is constantly killing people I know, people I love, and it is people like you who are letting it. Someday, when the earth has won by forfeit, and the oh-so-precious last tree stands to mark the grave of humanity, maybe then you'll understand, all too late. We are, and have always been, what we make of ourselves. We write our own definitions. So serve your god if you like, build your green temples and preach your naturalistic dogmas. Keep on praying for your salvation, and die happy to serve the worms you so vehemently worship. Be proud, knowing you are the only creatures on this earth to give up the challenge we are all born into. I, on the other hand, shall continue painting. I shall keep on fighting to create my humanity."

With that he left, leaving the woman and I sharing a silence neither had expected. I promptly started my walk home, this park being tainted by that man. As I walked, the day was still inviting, the sun was still warm and the breeze still playful. By the time I arrived home my mind had been cleansed by the earth, the man was as distant as last summer's leaves.

I stop outside an old oak tree on my front yard; my old oak tree, my favourite tree. As I listen to the tree's birds, trying to catch a glimpse of them, a sudden screech of a nearby crow interrupts the songbird's music. I leave in disgust, wanting to avoid the crow’s scratchy interruptions.

Written by Ben Bousada

2 comments:

  1. Beautiful, thoughtful piece. The petal and the root...

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  2. Very unique, and eloquently written. The poetic tone is beautiful.

    ReplyDelete