The Last Bird Sings


This is a story within a story of different chapters of my life and my struggle to hone a philosophy that would allow me to shoulder what life would present and the Cosmic influence that held me up.

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The Last Bird Sings is a story within a story and the form is much loved in European Literature. It contains excerpts of her life along with her knowledge of the layers of what life holds. It is an example of how she views herself with no separation from All That Is. The book portrays the connectedness of all we are with All That Is. It is a cosmic view of the humanity of people as well as our divinity.

Chapter One Excerpt

In the autumn of my days, in the time before the hoarfrost dressed the trees with whimsy, with a coat of ice that dance in the sunrise and disappeared when I approached, the morning came and I realized with a start that here indeed I stood at what would be the remaining tenor of my days. Somehow, what had been a life filled with joy, with anguish and at times had stopped my breathing heart, was now a life that would start to wrap up what had been the steering element of my days; a life played out with emotional drama to a visible as well as invisible audience. It was with some sadness that thought wrung my heart and I knew tears were at the surface and would soon spill down the well-etched crevices of my face.

It is a face chiseled like any other; roadmaps of where lives have traveled. Deep crevasses, deep chasms had been filled with rears when utter frustration proved too much to hand, but slowly to find relief in thirty second episodes only when I began to comprehend the irony of situations.

I realized at some point that thirty seconds was all I was allowed. Sufficient time to release the dam holding back the tears, allowing the rush of weather to wash the residue, the sludge out of a system gone rancid. Strangely refreshing amidst that anguish and stopping with a turn of the valve. I was to find it was all that was needed. I do not remember exactly when that came to mind. However, the calmness in the intervening times quieted the passions running rampant through every event. I did not know that this stillness could be part of the human condition… However, there I was, tears suffering to a trickle, passion spent and I continued to live. For the first time really living.

I do not know why I start my telling of my tears. Possibly because I heard somewhere that only humans cry though I doubt that. It is our primary unifying factor. Some things don’t have purpose; they simply are. Tears do have a purpose. I would venture to say that most things have little reason behind them. What it is we bring to it from within grants to the event or thing ultimate purpose. The reason why we stand back and say to ourselves, now what exactly is that supposed to mean?

Early on I found that tears had a meaning other than to bring an Other running. Every child learns this. But them we find that when the rears stop, the body can continue to cry out loud. We say we get clammy. It is the same state. It is here the tensions that the high flutist would reach are carried in anguish or joy to the heavens and are noted.

There may be argument on that but the body has its language and sings its song, like a throat of the warbler wrings from him his ecstasy or his torment. It is man’s communication with himself, his higher self, his god.

It is written that there will be knowledge given and there will be a Teacher who will come when the heart’s intent is noted. For too many, too soon the tears stop. They are considered signed of weakness. Visible to the heaven. They are signs that the most secret places of the heart have been touched and acknowledged. When heaven notes the tears of men, we in turn realize this and the acknowledgement has us growing taller, stronger and wiser. We know the precise moment this happens. It is true.

It is with this I start the story of the young man who came and spent many lifetimes gaining a history of himself in order to find a life that would no more demand from him the king’s ransom. It is his story, entwined with mine and how his influence came to bear upon me only to find what I though was hidden was not. It took all the days of my life to see this.

The moon has crossed my face with its shadows, pleading for me to remember. The sun has hidden from itself behind me and tempted me with a shadow hinting at some long thing. The starts play house at night and in the candle lit windows a play is enacted; other dimensions, other times, yet undergirding all that I am in a place that is all that times everywhere. Too much poetry? I tell, you that only poetry can begin to tell about the magnificence of this place we inhabit and only in poetry can one begin to understand man. It is all poetry. It must be written in a language that will grip man’s imagination and tell him in terms he understand where he is and who he is. Illusive and elusive? Can we hold wind in our hands? Can we touch sunlight with our fingers? Can we identify what moves our beloved?

So in these days of my life, with the completed summer riding my shoulders and the autumn hiding in my skirts ready with tumultuous colors, I stand in the warm sun, catching beams on my upturned face. The lines and cracks of many seasons are rigid on its plane. The brow no longer furrows and the eyes are no longer clouded.

There is an easy calm in me and though the heart races with excitement to get to doing, the time left stretches into the long winter ahead. It will be a time then of black and white etchings.

It will be a simpler time with the depth no longer on the horizon but within me. It will be a time of long nights and drowsy days, in preparation for a renewal. The winter is a drawing up an and pulling in. It is man’s chance, another in a long list of chances to start thinking of what he hopes to harvest before another winter comes to pass. It comes within this season, the chance to plant and grow and harvest and rest.

I stand to harvest this autumn. But the story begins with the Teacher who taught and the student who was eager to learn. It begins with the first millennium, anywhere.


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