Every day last week, whilst out wandering about the place, I’d pick up a feather.
It’s hard to say why. I’d just notice them. Just there, in my path. Or off to one side by a statue. Or lying in the grass half hidden.
It’s not that I was looking for feathers. I’ve not done that since my crow-feather obsession a few years ago. But yet, there was something about these “noticed” feathers that caused me to resolutely pick them up and carry them about till I could get them home. I just felt it was something I was supposed to do.
logic screams out that there’s no justification to such thoughts; but recently I’m letting logic slide a little..
What’s special about these feathers? I was trying to figure it out last week. I don’t think there -is- anything special about them. They’re grey, maybe woodpigeon. A couple have a few different shades of grey on them; but that’s all they are. Shades of grey.
Still, I kept them: sticking each one upright in my yucca plant pot (earth and air). And every night I’d forget all about it, and every following day I’d pick up another, for no reason.
This weekend; sunday to be more accurate; I finally achieved resolution (realisation?) on the bizarre emotional dance that occured with paul and I. Some issues resolved, my soul shaken, my heart wounded but not broken. For the first time I saw a relationship from the other side. Simultaneous realisation: I am weaker and less rock solid than I ever thought, but also I have inner strength and dogged stubborness that makes me stronger. For me at least, love has to be there before a relationship. (sometimes the obvious realisations are the hardest…)
But there (may) be another entry about that, for in a different light the whole thing was very, very amusing in a tragic-comedy style fashion. Back to the feathers.
(Incidently: That sunday, sitting down to relax mid-roleplay in woodbury common, I saw a pheasant’s tail feather right by my feet. In contrast to the other feathers, this was complex, beautiful but ragged. It bought to mind images of robin hood hats and roadkill birds. It was duly picked up and put in Marc’s bag..)
Today, while my mind and soul performs some sort of spring clean, my heart feels slightly…sick.. like it has simply a cold, and I know that with a bit of attention it will be fine in a few days. The feathers lay forgotten.
Then, wandering across the grass as a shortcut when returning from a statistics lecture I saw it at my feet: a feather. Smaller than the rest, but a well defined flight. The marked difference though is the colour: white.
It’s stained in places, and in need of serious preening. A pure, if slightly unclean on the surface, white feather. (angel?)
Contrast. It comes down to contrast. And retrospective meaning. To find this feather, today, after the confused blankness of grey and complexity of pheasant, has followed the pattern of both emotions and spirit.
You can find symbolism in anything I guess. Is that a bad thing? In the same way that certain abstract art makes more sense of concepts or feelings than detailed, perfect drawing, these feathers have summed up and reassured me of something more easily than the mess and running commentary of inner language and dredged up imagery has managed.
The white feather is stained and slightly matted. But it is still small and perfectly formed. It represents doves, and seagulls, and angels. A change, a continuation, the next stage in life’s dance.
(What I still don’t know is what caused me to pick up all those feathers last week.)