February 11: A Good Rest, Naps, "Winter Sky, October 28, 2021"

Santiago encounters a little bird . . . 

A small bird came toward the skiff from the north. He was a warbler and flying very low over the water. The old man could see that he was very tired.

The bird made the stern of the boat and rested there. Then he flew around the old man's head and rested on the line where he was more comfortable.

"How old are you?" the old man asked the bird. "Is this your first trip?"

The bird looked at him when he spoke. He was too tired even to examine the line and he teetered on it as his delicate feet gripped it fast.

"It's steady," the old man told him. "It's too steady. You shouldn't be that tired after a windless night. What are birds coming to?"

The hawks, he thought, that come out to sea to meet them. But he said nothing of this to the bird who could not understand him anyway and who would learn about the hawks soon enough.

"Take a good rest, small bird," he said. "Then go in and take your chance like any man or bird or fish."

Sometimes, nature gives us lessons, as Santiago notes here.

It's Friday night, and I am almost as tired as Santiago's little bird after this long week.  It wasn't a momentous week.  Nothing huge happened, thank God.  It just felt . . . long.  

Tonight, I'm ready for a little rest.  In fact, once I'm done typing this post, I am probably going to take a nap that may morph into bedtime.  These last seven or so days, my body has been letting me know when it needs a break.

So, there will be no long philosophical meditation in this evening's post.  Just an observation that naps are almost as good as chocolate.

Here's a little something Saint Marty wrote in a writing workshop a little while ago.  Something with birds and night . . . 

Winter Sky, October 28, 2021

after My Mother's Death

by:  Martin Achatz

The moon cracked open the clouds as I left that place of last 

breath.  I stood there, coated in night, felt the first 

fingers of winter press into my nose, turn the air to ice.

Somewhere nearby, a fire burned dark to sweet.

I kept looking up, searching for a part of you 

above the pines, like an arrow of midnight geese

rising toward the bullseye of heaven.