Day 661: Fuel for Happiness

Yesterday was blessed with cormorants and mandarin ducklings. As I swam through the sharp-edged water (a few degrees colder than the last time I swam), I watched them with pleasure and gratitude.

Maddy, the beautifully kohled mother mandarin (all the women ducks are Maddy, all the boys, Ming) allowed her tiny young to potter about the pond as if there were no heron threats or other predators. Gulls take ducklings too, apparently, and pluck manx shearwaters from the skies for food or sport. Why not live that way? Living in fear won't make your taking off less likely. They have the fluff and the calligraphy markings, those babies. I enjoyed them very much. 

The cormorant looked on. I thought I might witness a bird-murder, but apparently, they're mostly fisher birds, not duckling-munchers. Another paddled about the shallow waters where the yellow irises grow and the lily leaves spread themselves over the surface. And then it dived... and didn't come up! It stayed under ages, and all the time, my silly dread of it bursting up right at me grew and grew. It didn't happen, obviously. Eventually, there it suddenly was, like nothing happened. Cormorants, you're cool, with your great flat black feet and your archy beaks and your ridiculous lungs. I like you.

I saw the kingfisher today, flitting blue as jewelled princes' eyes above my head and off to the bird pond where the nest is, so they say. The herald of a good day. Good. I'm full of hmmmpf and ah and what? today. And sickly-sweet with envy, though not really the helpful kind that focuses, just the non-specific 'everyone else is better' kind. It's something I'm working on. I know it's just a story (which is envy's job - thanks, Parul Sehgal, for your TED talk on the subject - telling stories that make you feel bad, because you are writing them, so you know exactly which details will make your inner pillar crumble and your solar plexus writhe and shrivel like a salted slug). 

Stand to attention, you doubty motherfuckers

I'm reminded of my beautiful friend Kate, who said that her now husband was 'the reason it never quite worked out with anyone else'. Well, I can't quite imagine a husband happening, but maybe there's someone who doesn't mind my sharp tongue and bitch ability clashing with all the peace and love I want to be about, who doesn't flinch at the sound of a scratchy cello string or a strainy voice, who'll be patient (or better still, lovingly impatient) with the army of doubts about being good enough that march up daily and present themselves for duty and who'll love me and let me love them even though I can't promise to be the best at anything. 

The rescue donkey of self-love

If you're out there, sweetheart, I hope you're on your walk my way and that I'm on mine to you. And if not, I suppose it'll be useful to get used to being at ease with this, and me, and to give misty thanks for past lives full of passion, lovers and soulmates, children and kingfisher days for weeks on end. Here's to that kingdom of heaven thing, right here, right now, with whatever is rather than what should be. Here's to presence, even when presence shines a light on its own absence. Here's to acceptance and the blessings of the air, the light, the water and the earth and here's to gratitude itself, for being fuel for happiness.