Bluebird I went for a walk up the long hill; I read Jungian L. von Franz; she said tears preceded creative acts, that they provide the flowing water to enable movement up from the unconscious. I thought of my depressed weekend, my useless and sad attempts to create writing; it was very hot and still on my long hill. At least I have this much discipline, though I can't write any more, I thought sadly. At the top of the ridge, looking out over the wooded hills, I gave up my writing, because I couldn't do it. As I had prayed in my study, now I asked again: If I can't write for You, what do you want me to do? At that moment I heard the clearest cool singing of a bird high up in the dark leaves of a tree. It was so happy a song, the bird so perfectly suited to its world, singing for joy; and I was hot and sad below on the hot pavement. But suddenly the bird flew down from its place on the cool dark leaves and landed right in front of me. It was a bluebird, and it hopped towards me, and so of course I stopped so not to frighten it. We contemplated each other for a long moment, until a white truck driving up the hill honked its horn. The bluebird, startled, flew up into a tree across the road. There it sang again, a song as clear as water. |
