From the essay ‘There are Signs Everywhere.”
“Time passes in moments… moments which, rushing past define the path of a life just as surely as they lead towards its end. How rarely do we stop to examine that path, to see the reasons why all things happen, to consider whether the path we take in life is our own making or simply one into which we drift with eyes closed. But what if we could stop, pause to take stock of each precious moment before it passes? Might we then see the endless forks in the road that have shaped a life? And, seeing those choices, choose another path?” …… “What if there was only one choice and all the other ones were wrong? And there were signs along the way to pay attention to.” – Dana Scully, The X-Files, ‘All Things’.
Why look for signs? There are some people who don’t believe the world is a magic place anymore, if it ever was. It is all construction of our own will and coincidence. I prefer to believe there is an element of mystery. That we create from the hand we are dealt and the opportunities that come our way. Each choice is a signpost on the way and there are signs everywhere, if we choose to look and if we choose to see.
It’s a dance, I think. The more you look, the more you’ll see the language the universe is speaking in. It is no coincidence I have three messenger birds tattooed on my arm. The world is full of messages, if we will learn to tune in.
A long time ago, I had a dream and I learned I needed to let it go – so my fragment of a vision could grow and become something new. I buried the seed and let it go. For a long time, I’ve been walking down the highway of that dream, realizing at times what the collection of moments have given me in wisdom, understanding and personal growth. So I am closer, but I have no idea where or if the road will end.
Today, the tui sang and I walked into the backyard to see it eating from the ripe, sweet fruit on the apple tree. It looked up at me and sang again. We share a moment and then a moment more. The tui flew into the tree behind the apple tree in the far back corner of the yard. I walked quietly and encountered the most amazing fragrance. It was sweet and tart and almost tangy. I looked at the tui, sitting in the tree that has never borne fruit in the 6 years I’ve lived in this house.
The fragrance was intoxicating and coming from the corner of earth littered with dark red fruit, the grass and dirt stained pink from the bursting skins. The tree itself was still heavy laden on every possible branch. The tui sang once more and took flight back to the apple tree, message delivered.
The winter is over. The tree that was bare has borne fruit. Stay the course, don’t give up. Seeds buried might grow to trees and even then, you might wait another season before the tree bears fruit. But keep reading the signs along the way and you’ll be ready, when the moment comes. Pay attention.
From the poem "Listening." i. Some people will tell you to listen Listen and learn from your own body. It’s good advice, to master your body, learn it. But no one says also, here is a warning – And a notebook to write it down because – if you listen to your body You will hear everything in one voice but a thousand sounds, plucks, scrapes, clicks and thunders. The body makes a dozen slow, deep, thundering sounds. Then the bzzt of a hair standing on end The stubborn grip of the womb moaning in protest before letting go each month. The delicate, tiny sounds that only you can know. The pop of hidden bones in the ankle you rolled Age 14, before you knew what it was like to listen. ii. Now you hear the wind brushing your skin; the ice crack of goose bumps rising in response – you think ‘I might survive on the wind’s caress’. So now you believe you are at one with the night air silence, and Light touches you from the moon, distant and cold. You are bathed in mist coming off the sea into the valley of peat and stone, A dozen hands come close but cannot hold – you think ‘I might remained unanchored here.’ You and your body, in a long communion. Listening and talking together. Sighing, your body does not sigh but a kind of hum dimishes Slowly, like the sky sinking to earth. iii. Then the wind turns and grows warm, after a long silence; in a moment I am not alone. I feel my body’s voice rise again. The whoosh of hidden skin pulling tight, Calling my senses to attention. There is the beat and throb of my pulse Rising to match another, Blood pushing blood. Coming into tune for a cadence pores humming in trumpet song, A thousand tiny pressure valves released. I make no noise but hear my fingertips sigh gently as they land on other skin, burning, singing. Laughing aloud, saying, ‘No, no, I cannot be alone.’ I have learned my body sings and I will let it.
Signposts and Seeds