Journal. Rabbits, bird souls, Confucius, and rituals
The rabbit living in the Russian sage near one of V’s birdbaths isn’t afraid of me. It’ll move three feet away when I refill the bath, but not more. I could feel Disney princess-y. Instead I’m actually a teeny bit offended. I mean, it has no reason to be frightened of me, because I wish it no harm. I just don’t like the way it assumes that I’m harmless. (It has a cinnamon streak on the back of its neck—very dashing.)
The Oregon juncos have been busy in the other birdbath—the whole family all at once. I wish I understood what it is about the sound that moves me so much. I’ve been trying to write a haiku about it for days, and I think I may be expecting a “one breath poem that observes a connection” to do too much. On one level the whole “family swim day” thing cracks me up. But the sound—that delicate combination of fluff and splash—I think it’s the delicacy that gets me, for something they do so earnestly. There’s a peril to bathing when you’re a bird. When they’re done, they fly into the blue spruce and fluff with abandon—another delicate sound masking life-or-death.
I love the songbirds because of that compressed intensity. They have the same amount of life in them as an eagle, all in these little, weightless bodies. It’s like a chihuahua (bless its vicious little heart) that doesn’t know it isn’t a mastiff. Same size spirit, different size body. Very Yoda-esque.
It’s reminding me of The Path. I’m not sure what to make of the book yet. It’s less “intro to classical Chinese thought with a side of self-help,” like I’d hoped for, and more straight self-help, which I didn’t. Either way, I’m wondering about Confucius and rituals—about how outward observances toward others can shape who we are. As in, ritual that isn’t lighting a candle or meditating, but asking someone, “How are you?” and meaning it.
(A nuthatch just rang the windchime—and is now fluff-splashing in the birdbath very earnestly. Ah. Now it’s pygmy nuthatch family swim time! Taking turns. Another ritual.)
How is this connected with the size of bird souls? I think it’s connected to attention, and haiku as a form of attention. And not being scary to rabbits: about habitual stance. I think that’s the point the book made that struck me: that rituals are things we already do every day; we mostly just don’t notice them. Who sees the air they breathe? I, apparently, have “rituals” of behavior that make bunnies roll their eyes at me. I wonder what those rituals are. Did I fall into them from kindness? Or from diffidence? Same outward behavior, different message, like a “How are you?” that you mean or that you don’t.