SYNCHRONICITY, BIRDS AND HEALING

Every year Seth Apter organizes a "Treasure Hunt" for favourite blog posts. You can find links to other bloggers taking part in the treasure hunt, here. I have chosen Synchronicity, Birds and Healing for my Buried Treasure post. The bird sculptures in this post are all created by Geoffrey Gorman.

When my husband was gravely ill he spent many months in bed recovering from several surgeries and radical chemotherapy. To distract ourselves from the situation I decided to hang bird feeding platforms outside our bedroom window to see how many bird species we could attract to the garden. Every day I prepared a feast that soon became the talk of the town and within days every bird and his wife descended on our garden.

Once we had attracted the birds to the garden I purchased a nesting log made from palm stem. It wasn't completely hollowed out because apparently it is best to keep everything as natural as possible. Armed with wire and pliers I climbed into the tree closest to the bedroom window and fixed the log so that Martin would be able to see it directly from the bed.


Coming back through the kitchen door I called out that it may be a few weeks before the birds become used to the log. Almost immediately, Martin answered, "Come and have a look! ".

I have goosebumps thinking about it even now for there perched on the log were two Black Collared Barbets and while we watched with mouths agape they started pecking the soft pith out from the centre of the log.

It took several weeks for them to hollow it out to their liking but eventually the Barbets were satisfied and they began to build a nest inside the log. They were in that tree, building, nesting, feeding and rearing young for the rest of Martin's treatment.

Our visitors all congregated in the bedroom to watch, mesmerized as the little Barbet family went about their business. We are convinced that they played a very important part in my husband's healing. What are the odds that a family of shy birds will take up residence in a tree only minutes after putting up the nesting log? I have given palm logs as gifts over the years and most people report that no bird will go near it for the first month, if ever. We experienced many synchronicities during the two years that my husband was ill and this is definitely one we will never forget.

See more of Geoffrey Gorman's work here and his blog here.

INSPIRATION

At the moment I'm enjoying Geoffrey Gorman's sculptures, Nick Bantock's assemblages and Anne Westlund's poetry.




I loved reading Gorman's artist statement. It captures exactly what he's all about.

"A broken bent tree branch, bleached from sun and rain, makes me think of weathered bones: fingers, legs, backbone, and hip bone. Old stained strips of cloth act like bandages and clothing, hiding and holding it all together. Sculpted wax covers the frame and joints of wood. Found and lost objects assembled into curious and evocative shapes is what excites me.

When I am making objects, I think of model airplanes made of balsa wood, then covered in thin transparent paper. Or I see decoys and shapes made to attract wild animals. I visited a museum in Alaska that had drawers filled with toys that had been put together, used and collected from previous cultures. I also think of a forest of tall, dark trees covered in moss and moisture, a silent, meditative place".

The Artful Dodger by Nick Bantock is a book that I dip into frequently.

Anne Westlund is a writer I "met" over at Coach Creative Space where she runs a group called Writers Clique for "all the unpopular kids."


BLOCKED

I wait for inspiration
Like waiting for the electricity
to come back on
But the light bulb stays dim
And I sit here in the dark
Cold and alone
And bored out of my skull.

There are candles
Like some desecrated church
With candy wrappers and pop cans
And graffiti on paper if not walls
For anyone to see
If they would just look
But it’s dim in here
I can hardly blame them
For their disinterest
It’s my own
That I find so distressing
Unable to write
More than this note
To self—take out the garbage
Tomorrow—when it’s light.

For now I sit and smell
The incense, marginally better
Than the litter box, I listen
To music sung by rock gods
Now six feet underground
Death carries a tune
Better than I ever have
Still uninspired, stale
Unrewarded.

So many poets,
Not near enough rotten fruit
To go around this theatre
Of the faintly amused
With cynical smiles
Painted in silver greasepaint
Everyone’s a clown,
Turn that smirk upside down
I can’t even muster tears
Tonight, not exactly sad,
Just annoyed that I can’t
Check my email for Nigerian
Bank scams and Dell communiqués
How many computers can one
Person use?

One.

As far as I can tell
But don’t quote me on that
Cyber Sunday is long past
I missed out on all the good deals
The light is burnt out in the bathroom
I don’t suppose that matters now
With the blackout, outage, 75 mph
Wind gusts shaking the house.

The neighbors finally break
The quiet, some altercation punctuated
By truck doors slamming and a cold
Engine going into gear
I’m fabricating a little here, just
For my own amusement
Of course you can’t really tell
What’s the truth, and what mere falsehood
Don’t even try
Most days I can’t either
With all those creativity articles
I should be able to come up
With something.

No, I can’t think of anything
To write about, not nature, love,
I can’t even write one of those depressing
Goth teenage poems about heartbreak
And suicide. Not tonight.
This dim bulb has gone out.

December 4, 2007
© 2007 Anne Westlund