A Must Read

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou

Staying grounded

I do not consider myself a great scholar or academic. Some of the people who know me have said that I am intelligent, others have described me as creative, still others have said that I have potential. There may very well be some truth to that but the reality is that when I sit and ponder the immense patrimony of humanity built up by successive generations over millennia of existence, I am confronted by my own limitations.

Gazing up at the unclouded night sky, I glimpse a fragment of an infinite universe that brings me face to face with the boundaries of my own finite knowledge, and I feel little.

The sea also has that effect on me, except that, being more familiar with that environment (I mean I haven’t been doing much space exploration lately) there’s also a peaceful feeling mingled with the realisation of how tiny I am in the grand scheme of things. That connection must be the result of being an island child. Yet that sensation of being at home on the seashore is mingled with a quiet terror of the deep and the creatures that inhabit its hidden halls and submerged caverns. A terror that is confirmed by the awesome power unleashed at the coming of a storm. That force that otherwise lies dormant- a majestic might that you all but forget on days of sunny calm.

All these put life back in perspective and help me remember my place when I’m tempted to think more of myself than I should, or when I forget that the world does not revolve around me.

These are also the things that I miss living in a city which, while being a fairly green one, is still a city of asphalt and concrete and old stone. A city located in a region where the sunshine falls in buckets of cold liquid (which make seeing the blue sky a rare event). A landlocked city traversed by a river- which I’m happy for, but then a river has nothing on the sea!

Nevertheless I am grateful for a chance to experience something new. To see life from a different perspective. To learn to deal with fresh challenges and thereby grow. I think. I feel I breathe. I am alive. And I am grateful.

Make life Psychedelic

What happens to us when we get to be a certain age ? That’s a question I’ve been asking myself recently. You start out your life with a sparkle that finds mystery and adventure around every corner and under every stone. Cracks in the pavement become the object of a life-or-death challenge as you try to avoid them all while walking down the street… The sea and sky provide no end of matter for flights of fancy, from seeing shapes in the clouds to imaginary kingdoms waiting to be discovered below the foaming crests of waves…

And somehow, somewhere we get wrapped up in school and homework and jobs and images and reputations and before you know it you wake up and you become this person that’s so “grown up” you don’t remember the last time you really saw the colour green or asked yourself what dogs do with their lives when their masters aren’t looking.

I’m not advocating we all become like Peter Pan and live our lives completely cut off from reality. But maybe, just maybe dear old Peter wasn’t totally wrong after all. What if we remembered to take the time to indulge boy/girlhood fancy once in a while? What about dusting off those rose coloured glasses we retired way back when and put the wonder back into the way we look at life. I’m just saying… ;)