Even as you read this, we are experiencing the constancy of present becoming past. Noticing the breath, the mere act of it arising immediately renders it into a prior moment.
As some of you are aware, I’ve been undertaking a removal of what’s gone before - aka: decluttering - for many, many months. This has become a deeply-emotional drive to be rid of all that’s no longer serving me - items that still hold meaning to a certain extent, but not the same meaning.
Recently, noticing I’d been referencing repeating cycles in my life, and having recorded them in my journals, I then chose to be rid of seven years of writing. This isn’t the first time I’ve let go of years worth of journals and poetry.
The value of keeping page after page of recording my days, all long-gone, felt heavy one overcast Saturday morning, when I looked at the colourful journal spines piled up on a shelf (see header image).
Three hours later, the journals were empty shells - mere husks that once contained fountain inked pages of my most ‘once’ present moments.
At one time I’d harboured the fantasy of keeping my journals so that they could be read after I’d departed. An homage perhaps to one of my favourite books of all time by Terry Tempest Williams1
Having listened, and re-listened too many times to mention on audio, I was fortunate to obtain a first edition hardback, second hand.
On seeing the library stamp inside the book on arrival, I looked it up, and whilst little is known of Emma S Clark, here’s a quote from John Elderkin, Library Board of Trustees, at the dedication of the Emma S. Clark Memorial Library, October 3, 1892
Our neighbor and friend, Mr. Thomas G. Hodgkins, has erected this building and dedicated it to the purpose of a library, as a memorial to his lamented niece, the late Miss Emma S. Clark. In doing this it has been his purpose to perpetuate the memory of a good woman, among the people with whom she dealt in kindly and helpful relations for nearly a quarter of a century, by an institution of a useful, benevolent and elevating character, which shall be a means of pleasure and culture for all time to come.
Isn’t it wonderful that we can learn a little of someone from the past?
When considering my journals, I feared all anyone would learn of my past was the continuous circling the drain hole and examples of bad poetry which needed much re-working.
Williams writes,
My Mother’s Journals are a motion circling the void
Impermanence shows itself readily this time of year in my garden.
The Lilacs, which still have a heavenly scent, are tinged brown and hang heavy from the recent rainfall.
Blue Tits have abandoned the nesting box, despite having wrestled control of it from a pair of Great Tits. I won’t know until the end of the season when I can check, whether they had laid or not.
Last June I’d reported that Great Tit chicks were abandoned and prey to a Jay. I rescued the chicks, fed them for a day whilst waiting for the RSPB to collect them. Following this desperate episode, I’d vowed not to get attached to any happenings in the garden this year.
Well that was quickly abandoned when it became evident the pair of Collared Doves, who had been wooing each other behind my satellite dish of all places, decided they wanted to build a nest there.
I kept telling myself they would quickly come to the conclusion that the arm holding the dish wasn’t wide enough to lay sticks.
After a week of observing sticks constantly falling to the ground and both birds looking forlornly at the lack of nesting space, we intervened. Putting together a nest-shaped bowl made out of chicken wire, laced with many of said fallen sticks, this was cable tied to the arm of the satellite dish - a very precarious procedure which in hindsight was not altogether safe.
The following morning the first egg had been laid.
I keep trying not to envision the alternative of finding an egg fallen to the ground.
A second egg quickly followed and I’m hopeful for the first sighting of a chick any day now, whilst reminding myself mentally that not everything works out and not to become too invested. Though I readily admit I’m enjoying saying ‘good morning’ to the Dove each morning, sitting patiently on her bizarre nest, as I open my bedroom window and gently lean out. She has become my teacher of sorts, embodying the art of sitting meditation.
Perhaps I like to think the birds will ‘perpetuate the memory of a good woman’ in me through endless feeding, nurturing the garden so that it remains on the right side of wild, natural and welcoming, as well as wildlife rescuer.
I will leave you with some details of a couple of events:
Saturday 27 May - I shall be co-hosting a further death café online with a colleague from Sakyadhita UK. Details and registration for this women’s event can be found below2
Saturday 03 June - our regular monthly women’s meditation group3
In addition, I’m looking to start an online monthly Dharma book club - if you are interested in joining, do let me know.
To round off this museletter on impermanence, below is a song from Carsie Blanton I’ve been returning to - enjoy!
When Women Were Birds - Fifty-Four Variations on Voice / Terry Tempest Williams / Sarah Crichton Books
Perfection 👌🏽