From: Augusto Alcalde <augual2002@yahoo.com.ar> Sent: Friday, November 11, 2002 10:38 AM Subject: [dharmadiscussion] Wisdomless Words My younger daughter found an owl on the sidewalk, walking the city of cordoba.. She gave him to me, 'cause she could not take care of the guy at the place she lives. I took the bird then here to my home in the hills. Something was wrong, he could not fly, maybe because was hurt by the storm that happened the day my daughter found him. Seems that even birds can be hurt by the wind sometimes!!! He slept in a big box, with a branch, and food and water. First day did not eat or drink, no noise coming from the box, took the bird a few times out, did not move much. Only those incredible eyes looking through me. Felt as looking through my true nature (if i can be stinky zen...). Second day i knew his true nature (if i can be stinky zen...) Big noise from the box, opened it, the owl flew inside my livingroom, looked inside the box, food and water was digested. Hanging from the curtain, that look. I felt as if looking at my true nature through those very eyes. And he wanted to be awake when i wanted to sleep, sooooo, noises all the night! (still was not flying too well, needed still some rest, so i thought). Third day. Bird flying day and night. Me treating patients in next room, going more than often to peep at the bird, and always those eyes. I could always touch him, as long as it was a careful full of care touch, without fear. But every time i caressed his head, a thrill went through my body. Wildness, those eyes and that flying. Wildness, untamed wildness, untameable wildness. The Unknown as the miracle of next move, next moment, next event. End of my day, beginning of the bird's night. While enjoying my end of the day gin, quiet silent night and laptop, the bird flies inside my house. And flies and flies and flies. And those eyes.... I have some plants inside. One of them is tall, and has a few big leaves that move easily when someone passes nearby. The bird was flying and flying. And the leaves did not move not even a tiny bit, as if he was not passing so close. And there was no sound. Just the flying, no sound, no effects of the wings flapping. That's why he can earn his living as a predator.... Time to go to bed!! For me at last!! Found that the wild could make such a racket while in a box, when he was already healthy. 4 am, took the bird outside (this is where the wild abides). And with no sound, without stirring the air or the space, he flew away. That bird taught me a lot. What he taught me, i do not know. But the wild, the flying, the air, the silence has a fresher presence in each heartbeat since. Metaphors? Maybe, after all it means beyond (meta) phors (words). Beyond words, pregnantly creative. Talking to the heart clearly, not necessary brilliant for the mind. Someone said: metaphor for practice? Maybe, maybe, may be. Some things are clear: the bird has to be found, not hunted. Has to be cared for. He needs space. If you put him into a box, you are asking for the racket.... Cheers! Augusto
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