Friday 27 February 2015

Thursday 26 February 2015

Winged Messengers

Snippets From my Journal...
This morning a heron, grey as the sky, rose up out of the mist and flew before me, great slow wing-beats into the trees. There is magic everywhere, look for it and it is there.
This morning, two bluetits perched on the windowsill, not a foot away from where I sat writing. Cheeky clowns, hanging upside down and chattering with each other, tiny bright-eyed balls of feather and bustle. Remember that joy and play are as much a part of life as seriousness and work.
And now, as I write, the heron flies overhead again as if in salute, or acknowledgement, or benediction. I am blessed.
Starlings gleam in the slanting sun, their wings translucent gold silhouetted against the sky. Magical, mystical, fairy tale birds until they land and become once again, a small flock of garrulous fallen angels. The divine is immanent, if not always obvious.