Grus grus – Heralds of Spring

I am tired of winter by now, tired of the cold, tired of the greyness, wetness and emptiness, the fierce winds and snow. I want to feel some warmth upon my body, I yearn for the sunlight upon my face, for flowers, insects and colours ... I want to enjoy the outdoors again, walk barefoot through the dewy grass, I want to be overwhelmed with the spicy scent of the lilac in the gardens, I long for a bird's song in the morning and nakedness at night ... I long for spring.

And I think it is just around the corner ... the flowers can hardly wait to pop open and sink us in an ocean of colours and scents ... I can feel the change in the atmosphere. The wind is becoming milder, the sun is getting warmer and I'm starting to get the slightest notion of the almost forgotten sounds of spring – the buzzing of bees and flies, the wild noise of mating cats, kids laughing, playing outside.

Yet there is one sound almost tantamount to spring – being so distinct, so dear and familiar to me: the sound of the cranes going north!

Last weekend I had this year's first sighting of these sublime waterfowls, heralds of the spring. The Eurasian crane, "grus grus" – how I love this name ever since I first learned it as a kid – flocks and flocks of these beautiful bluish-grey birds flying past, returning from their African winter quarters ... hundreds of them gathering high above my head, circling, spiralling up to even higher altitudes, reforming their mighty triangles in the sky before elegantly proceeding on their journey ... necks held straight, wings stretched wide ... all grace and beauty.

The air was filled with their spine-tingling call, as if they wanted to drive the winter away, the noise echoing in my winter-weary soul all night long ... comforting me with the auspicious, much longed-for certainty: spring ... yes ... soon!!


Here's a poem by Marilyn Peretti, dedicated to these great birds – my beloved cranes:

Ardour

This ardour has flown in so recently,
entered this life of years
after expectation had worn thin like glass,
yet now has nested tightly in my chest
like some organ that insists on pumping oxygen,
forcing its way through,
to the point of improving vital signs:

these widespread wings
of common cranes,
that lift and push, lift and glide,
over my head, over my trees, across my earth,
pulling this temporal being
up into their cool orbit,
entrusting me with wings.

Rilke: The Panther

Rilke's poem ... it reminded me of somebody ... looking at the world from behind bars that addiction and struggle create for him ... and it makes me sad, touching me so much ...

The Panther

Jardin des Plantes, Paris

His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars, and behind the bars, no world.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tense, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.

Rainer Maria Rilke, 1907
(translation: Stephen Mitchell)

something by Brazilian poet Manuel Bandeira

"To be like a river that flows

silent through the night,

not fearing the darkness and

reflecting any stars high in the sky.



And if the sky is filled with clouds,

the clouds are water like the river, so

without remorse reflect them too

in the calm deep."

I’m blessed because ...

... I have those wonderful, loving friends ... and I would be nothing without them.

I love my friends for who they are and for what they do as much as for what they don't, for taking me out of my self at times and for reconciling me with it at others.

I love them for being caring and sympathetic and big-hearted and generous, reasonable and funny and crazy and wise, amazing and understanding and wild and insightful and candid and honest and sensible and sometimes for being such terrible pains in the ass.

I love them for telling me I'm greatness when I feel like chicken-shit, for dealing with my moods and madness, my dreams and temporary despair, I love them for telling me not to take myself so fucking seriously when I lose myself in drama, for feeding me when I'm hungry and soothing me when I hurt, for listening to me when I overflow with thoughts and for simply being there when I think I'm lost, I love them for making me laugh when I want to cry, for making my fly when I think I must crawl and for keeping my feet firmly on the ground when I run danger of losing myself in the stars and the clouds.

I love them for their strength as much as for their weakness, their wit as much as their fears, I love them in their ups and downs and joys and angers. They catch my fall, they ease my sorrow, they open my heart and my eyes, they make me smile and sing and dance, they make me shout and scream and cry at times but they are always there to reason, to talk, to make up again.

I love them for sharing my crazy life with me and letting me know they love me back ... their words and deeds and thoughts mean the world to me.

I think I'm blessed. I know I am.