"Birds learn how to fly, never knowing where flight will take them."
(continued from my prior post)
5. I know that over the years, through fear and expectation, my mind has gathered and hoarded places I needed to go, things I needed to have, selves I needed to be. But here I am, without most of them - the goals and wants all used up in learning how to love.
6. So, try as I do to imagine and construct where I am headed, try as I will to plan and know what this life of feeling means, it is the pulse of what I feel itself that lifts me into spirit. In truth, wings don't grow any differently to fit south or east or west, and our lives, no matter how we train ourselves, are more fundamental than any direction of worldly ambition. We, like the birds, are meant to fly and sing - that's all - and all our plans and schemes are twigs of nest that, once outgrown, we leave.
Ambedo n. A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details - raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees leaning in the wind, clouds of cream swirling in your coffee - briefly soaking in the experience of being alive, an act that is done purely for its own sake. (Source: Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows)