apoptosis/apotheosis

outside, there is a bird singing three notes from the movie music soundtrack i am playing in the house, as i have coffee on the front porch. i wonder if the squirrels that live in our crestfallen front yard tree have realized the old landlords, who used to fill the birdfeeder with seed, have moved; i wonder if the squirrels will move too, or just go on living in that same hollow branch, a little less fat than they used to be?

can that bird possibly appreciate this song as much as i do? i think maybe he is more capable; he speaks in music, and he is, after all, singing along. i've heard that man started playing instruments in imitation of birdsongs. funny, when you see a moment where things come full circle. this bird is chatting up my iTunes. he likes Clint Mansell, apparently. i like this bird.

outside, it is like the old poems say; spring is here, but not yet on its way. the ground is so frostbitten, it hasn't yet recovered enough to melt the last few dirt-scorched patches of ice and snow; hasn't yet been able to make the grass look like grass, or bring the trees back to life.

i learned a new word, the other day; a neologism from Greek, that means "to fall away." let me load the phrase with the not-entirely-fabricated implication that it is a falling away with purpose; a self sacrifice, a shedding of the heavy mortal weight to enable...something else. survival. life. paying out a portion to eternity. like insurance.

the insurance of trees is: the souls of fallen leaves come back as spring rain.

when the blind recover sight, ask them what it was they saw first. they inevitably reply: "i saw trees, walking around like people."

sometimes, when i think about why i left buffalo, i have trouble deciding whether i am the tree that shed the crispy leaf of my hometown? or am i the leaf who let go, whose weight is still spiraling towards some unseen floor? it is only half the question: you can't talk about going without conspicuously ignoring the coming, and perhaps in considering the dual nature of all such questions, we can synthesize an answer: i left my hometown to come to my birthplace. i shed a husk of an old life, hoping that the lighter parts might ascend, that the truer parts might become more refined. that i might be distilled; sharp spirits from a dull malt, rain out of escaping vapor, stronger life out of life, to penetrate and cultivate the unyielding earth.

i was a leaf, i like to think.

i looked, and i thought i saw my life, spiralling out of control. it was the husk of a leaf, exhaling its living parts. and if something spirals, it is never out of control. life is subject to seasons, and somehow we fool ourselves into using terms like "beginning" and "ending." life is a perpetual motion machine. the spiral is only a circle subject to time. what goes around, does, in fact, come back around. if all were chaos, there would be no reaction for every action.

so, this life is a loop; a rolling hula-hoop, or a tire like the ones third world children chase down streets with sticks.

if i am spiralling, it is not out of control.
it is no coincidence the bird outside of my window is listening to my music.
the squirrels? they have no seed? let them eat cake. or shed a pound or two. or find out where my old landlords live now.

i have recovered a little bit of sight.

i am a tree, also: walking back to my roots. letting go of my tarnished leaves, and reaching, even through the winter, towards the sky, towards spring...clutching at the skirts of a thoroughfaring God, in the wake of His green glory.

yes, a little bit of glory is what i'm reaching for. it is not as stupid as it sounds.
i give up life to gain life.