Welcome to our little jungle house. For the last six months I spent my days on the deck, absorbing the energy that arose all around me through the living things that grew, ran, climbed or flew in and out of my world.
From this lovely spot I began serious work on my novel, a story that has lived in my soul for over five years, crying to be brought to life on paper and patiently awaiting the hustle and bustle of my life to subside and allow for the creative juices to flow. And flow they did here in this peaceful paradise. I have to say that I don’t think I would have been as beautifully inspired were it not for all of my furry and feathered friends that showed up each day to pose for my camera and entertain me with their antics. Monkeys to Iguanas to all manner of birds, they paraded in and out. But none were so regular or influential for me as this glorious creature I am happy to call a feathered friend.
At first I thought it was a fluke that they happened by, followed by my worrying over the other creatures in my “backyard” and whether any one of them had met an untimely demise, thereby attracting these natural cleanup technicians. Only once did we actually note their presence due to the promise of a meal. Usually they rested in the branches of the trees, spreading their wings to dry them out, turning on their talons like awkward prima ballerinas doing precarious pirouettes as though upon thin air. In awe I watched them repeat the same process daily. Soon, I came to view them as my muses. For if ever there was a time when I was lazy about writing, preferring to lick my lonely wounds while missing old friends and family instead of creating SOMETHING, a gnarled head would appear to stare at me, chiding me for succumbing to pain and anguish rather than doing what I knew full well would lift my spirits instantly.
Get on with it, they said over and over. And they didn’t leave until I pulled out the PC and got to work. I knew this to be true, insane as it sounds and I was given proof positive one dark and gloomy day during the rainy season. I had spent several indoor days with only two rooms to pace and nothing left to clean, only a few channels to watch-when the electricity stayed on-and the temperatures rising. I was lonely for my children, too sweaty to be seen in public even if the opportunity had presented itself and too immersed in self pity to reason my way out of it. There was a break in the weather that day which should have been my first cue to get going and pull out the story to get to work. Yet, as with all good and flowing “funks” I just couldn’t rise out of it. At some point in that glorious morning I heard a major scratching and rustling sound on the tin roof. It wasn’t the sound I had come to know as a mini earthquake and although it could have been monkeys, it didn’t really sound like that. I tried to ignore it. It got louder. Finally I scurried outside to see if our landlord was up there, securing the roof or repairing something. I went out to the walkway and looked up to see this spectacle taking place on the peak of our little roof. I was literally eight feet from this guy and he had an agenda-with ME.
“Look at the sun,” he said.
“What are you doing with yourself today?”
“I am King of the Vultures, and yet I have work to do. If I do not look for food, neither do my loyal followers. If I do not dry my feathers, I will get sick. If I do not enjoy the beautiful weather, perhaps it will give up and retreat into gloomy darkness once more.”
“You are Queen of your own world. If you do not lift yourself up, no one else will. Where is your written world today, sorrowful one?”
I watched him there, turning in the light breezes, drying his wings, calling me out of my sorrow. I listened to his wisdom.
Spreading his wings, I felt one with his Spirit. I saw the distant mountains through his appreciative eyes. I was thankful for all that I had and turned with him so that I might experience the winds the way he did. Peace washed over me.
My inspiration surfaced once more. After that day I never sat down to write without him or one of his clan stopping by to nudge or encourage me. They became my permanent muses and he now has a prominent place in my novel. What a miracle. What a beauty. What a good friend. Nature’s “garbage collector”, much maligned and abhorred, I ask you, “Where would we be without them?”
Thank you, dear friend, for your presence in my life.
You hold a place of reverent honor in my soul.
Go out to spread your wings today. Feel the breezes and know your passion.
Love and Light,