11 August 2022
This space, in my yard, where I read and write, is a space intricately woven of the temporal and the immortal. Just think of my animals, my grass, the wind, my view of Sandia. This is precisely how I see my sweet hummingbird family: they exist for me intergenerationally. Yes, perhaps one generation, when viewed apart from its species or family lineage, is short-lived. But they don’t know that. And when you look at the culmination of thousands upon thousands of years of evolution in their tiny frames and complex social systems, you know – you just know – that these beings are simultaneously mortal and immortal. The fact that you cannot trace a single bird for longer than a two-minute timespan contributes to this mystique. How the hell do they know to build their walnut-sized cup nests? How do they know that my yard is the place to drink clean nectar? How? They are communicating with one another, then passing down that knowledge in ways we, as humans, can only barely comprehend. You have to see it to believe it, and if you haven’t seen it take my word for it: the sublime plays daily here, in my little backyard.
The sublime plays everywhere. Will you pause to witness it?
It’s in that pause, I posit, that we replenish our energy. This pause, this replenishing calm, is where I want to be. If your intent is to drag me into chaos, torment, or toxicity – think again. That’s no place for me.