Stepped out of the door to lock my building for work, with the usual mixture of relief that the holiday has arrived, and anxious dread that of all the things I didn't manage to get done before I left, one-of-them-will-end-up-being-crucially-important-and-will-signal-the-coming-of-a-plague-upon-our-land,-probably-locusts-or-a-swarm-of-killer-wasps,-and-I-will-be-totally-fired. Upon stepping outside, I was greeted by a cacophony of chattering birds in a tree next to the building. And I was taken aback.
These birds weren't singing. They were talking, in a great council, like how I imagine the words of Orual falling together and blending with the judgments of the gods as she makes her case before them. The noise wasn't exactly soothing, but it was - vital. Vibrant. Alive. And it reminded me - that I'm alive. And all the other worries pale in comparison with the gift of life.
Finding beauty in the imperfect (and sometimes writing on the occasional random topic)
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