Falling birds

Can you relate
to the tiny bird in the tree,
or are you snagged on the dead branch of its perch?
High above in the sky-
where it finds it’s freedom,
Do you find yourself flailing
in the space surrounding,
as nothing more
than an object falling,
Instead of an opportunity
destined to fly?
Are the heights what scare you-
or is it the level to which
you are held-
and the tedious tendencies
to focus more on
how to stay there-
as opposed to how
you belong there?
Can you relate to the tiny bird,
or do you find her too small
for such grandeur
as that which is required
To remain
Unswallowed-
Unbound-
and flying without flail?
Do you know
that to fly is not a fall,
but merely a lift?
Not a step forward,
but the outward expression
of that which you already are,
and that expression lifted
upwards to the heavens?
To fly then….
To soar….
To dive into and
to rise above-
To skim over, see a way around
and yes-
sometimes,
to fly straight through-
These are the gifts of the tiny bird-
and the everyday essence of you.

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  1. #1 by SalvaVenia on June 1, 2014 - 2:33 pm

    Nice to listen from you again after quite some time.

    Are the heights what scare you- / or is it the level to which / you are held- …

    Ever heard and/or read Farid ud-Din Attar’s Mantiq ut-tair or Conference Of The Birds? The above lines remembered me of that.

  2. #2 by foundedna on June 1, 2014 - 6:47 pm

    every time i sit down to reply, “the road less traveled” comes to mind…i don’t know why. i think of that road, and how they say it’s less traveled and i wonder, what road are they even talking about? how many people claim to be on that one? more than enough to erase its less traveled persona…and it seems less a road and more a track, a rut, a circle…the road less traveled is the one that yes, may include suffering, pain, crawling, running, walking…and yes, we may often find ourselves alone there when we isolate ourselves…but that road, it goes somewhere…it goes everywhere. and there’s a tree on that road. lots of trees and lots of tiny little birds that i find on saturday mornings, perched on branches and ready to teach me. it is the level to which i am held. the road on which i walk. i have not read Farid, but i will.

    it is strange Salva, the things i think of when you say the simplest of things.

    i want to write more.
    fondly,
    m

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