Winged Beings
A crescent moon hangs low in the twilight morning sky. The collection of whitewashed cottages stretches towards the horizon. From this little corner there’s already a faint trace of the morning light behind the low hill that marks the Eastern edge of the village. The air is biting cold and steam rises like little chimneys from the other walkers as they call robust or nervous greetings — unsure of which language to do so in. The sea is backlit from this slow light; what was solid darkness on the other horizon shifting moment by moment into a strand of dark grey that reveals the water. The sky is a shade lighter with a fattening line of dusty pinks separating sea and sky. Heading east, the light over the hill is growing, the few houses on that end of the village are silhouettes of the langhuis style favoured in this part of the holy land. Soon enough the light is brighter and over on the right, you can catch glimpses of a now teal-blue Atlantic. The band of pink now replaced by a stark line of a pale blue sky.
The air is as cold as it will be in this part of the morning. Heading up the little hill out of town, you cross paths with the steenbok scurrying into the low fynbos; and in every clutch of tarentaals, there’s a tell-tale white blur that makes you look again. The blur is the rare sacred ibis. The francolins have the run of the place, darting about every which way and wholly unafraid of humans. If you bring your pace down to a slow walk, you might see an occasional yellow muishond standing quietly in the fynbos and then disappearing when you make it. I’ve yet to spot a fox or jackal but it’s only been a few days. There’s time yet to see all the critters that inhabit this spot, or at least we hope so.
I share the observations of the abundant local wildlife with the dervish and after listening for a long time and being silent for even longer, she gently sighs; Inshallah, you will. You will see everything you can with your eyes and smell everything you can with your nose and touch and feel everything you can with your hands and feet and hear every barn owl call out on the new moon. All these you will see, feel, hear, smell and even know; if that is your intention and your wish. You will see the unmarked glory of the milky way over a darkened veld with the wind and the murmur of the sea for company. You will stand on the shores of this icy sea and feel the rushing in of its Spring tide and the gentle lapping of its neap tide. You will inhale deeply of the wild rosemary and the indigenous sagebush, the sweet aroma of fynbos as a long hot day melts gently into a darkening sky. You will see every grasshopper and bee, every flower bursting forth with colour and life. You will hear the birds sing their songs of joy and woe, the rustling of the tortoise as it slowly makes its way past the anthills and up to the warm rocks near the top of the hill. Follow in its path, take slow steady steps. Stop and breathe in deeply and often. Give the tortoise space to make this journey it’s made for a hundred years; be a silent and respectful observer. Be a kind and grateful follower of the path it is showing you to the rocks warmed by the sun for this entire day and be sure to take in every detail of the ground beneath, the sky above and the air around you. Every tree, note every stone, every chattering bird and crawling creature; the sum total of a fragment of creation laid out before you. For this journey of hours on your feet, in small and patient steps, with deep purposeful breathing to sync yourself to the moment of time being manifest with this journey of this tortoise up this hill to the warm rocks is not a moment. It is the only moment that exists in this way, right now. It is that sacred, revered and much sought after peace and quiet. It is that deeply desired freedom, that heavily lusted after break. It is that opportunity to place your self at the centre of your human form on this perfectly adapted planet and breathe. And move and stand still and wonder. Not just at how much of this low fynbos is full of so much life but that this empty land is teeming with LIfe itself and meaning and purpose and being and living.
At the end of the call, I sit quietly and stare out at a sliver of the now azure blue Atlantic crashing into large dark rocks in a shower of white spray. The thunder of each crashing wave running into the rocky shore and through the wild veld and into my very being. Ripples and vibrations and other sensations that have no words to describe them. Each one pulling me deeper into their rhythm of existence, function and death. Going from this powerful moving force strong enough to lift a ship into ephemeral foam on the shore. A light dusting of icing sugar on a stukkie of tannie se melktert. The gentle brush of a silky rose petal on skin. This whole ocean, in seas of several parts and temperatures and whole living worlds. All these little sheltered coves and bays where the might of the chilly Atlantic is reduced to a humble kiddies pool strewn with seaweed and the occasional brave child frolicking in its slightly sun warmed shallows. I reflect that in this human form, we are so limited in what we can experience of the rest of the species we share this planet with. Admittedly, practice has taught me that we can experience so much more of our fellow inhabitants and genetic mates of the planet when we can sit quietly and just exist.
In a follow up call a few weeks later, I share this reflection with the dervish who pointedly reminds me that on a previous call I had burdened the conversation with the tasteless details of earning a living in world based on arbitrary currency values; dubious economic practices and a very retarded view of what development looks like. Her rebuke brings me down to the stony ground of life. I pause, then acknowledge the mental litter I had strewn on this pristine ground I have been privileged to share with the dervish so far. She breathes deeply and sits quietly for a long time. My ears burn with the shame of having desecrated the beauty we shared with such base things like dodgy working habits and the petty people that revel in the drama they stir up. I feel small and diminished. Quietly, I plead failure, express sorrow and stop just short of begging forgiveness. As much as I might have failed so far, I have at least learnt that forgiveness only exists when it is endowed unasked. Much like we are endowed naturally with enlightenment and then proceed to have it buried under layers and burdens of being parented, parenting, family and general socialisation into the major religious cults which are but flimsy facades for patriarchal capital gain and preservation.
I drift off in the silence and only find myself lost in the shame of my misdemeanour when the dervish eventually turns to me. The warm day has stilled and her gaze is steady and unaffected. The rocks at the hilltop remain beautifully warm but the pressure is dropping and the first hint of a thunderstorm hangs expectantly in the air. I shiver under her gaze, even if it’s being mediated via a phone screen. She acknowledges my error and asks about the shame. We end up speaking at length about failure and shame and all the little terrors of life’s meaning when we succeed and its implied meanings when we fail. But that conversation is a blog for another day.
As we come to the close of our time, she brings me sweetly back to my wish to see all the little and large beings that share their little part of the planet with me. She notes I have reached the warm rocks, having followed the tortoise and says; remember that all that you desire is manifest in some way, shape or form if you are but open to seeing with more than your eyes…or as Ben Okri cautions us; “Beware of the stories you read or tell; subtly, at night, beneath the waters of consciousness, they are altering your world.”
Winged Beings is a snippet of the experiences and lessons learnt at the feet of a being of much higher purpose. And a tribute to all beings that raise us up and draw us closer to our higher self.
© Jesh Baker, 2022
