My Saturday mornings.

Hello, quiet Friday evening.

Just what I need after a long week of lectures.

And hello, readers! If I have any left, that is, after such negligent blogger behaviour. Oops. Sorry, all. I know I’ve been bad! I don’t really have an excuse–I DO have free time, and plenty to write about, too… I don’t know why I haven’t kept up.

I’ll try harder. There is something so satisfying about having posts up, somehow.

I know common practice dictates that I should perhaps use this post to bring the blog back up to date, but I think that’s part of why I ended up stalling in the first place. Updates feel tedious, forced, overwhelming… egocentric, even. Though honestly, what about blogs like this one isn’t egocentric?

Tomorrow is Saturday, which means in the morning I will be on the 31 bus to Bonnyrigg, gleefully on my way to spend the day being subservient to a bunch of birds. They’ll spite me, ignore me, hiss, bite, gouge, and scream at me… and I’ll giggle and carry on. A flap of liver was flung at the left plane of my nose last week. I thanked the bird for not launching it at my eye, instead.

Why? Why should a tired vet student ever devote the better part of every Saturday to raw fingers and odd odors and squidgy, soggy boots? What makes it worth it?

I don’t know. I can’t by any logic say why I bother dragging myself out of bed when all I want is to roll over and snore into the bedsheet some more. I am not a lark, despite my grandest efforts. The sunrise is indeed beautiful, but eyelids are oppressive and pillows much too accommodating.

But there’s nothing like the rush, the elation, the sheer grace one experiences with the thump of a hawk’s heft onto one’s fist. Or anything quite akin to the sense of honor and gratitude which come with being granted permission to nestle one’s chilly nose into the refuge of down under an eagle owl’s chin.

Nothing. Or at least not in my knowledge.

When a half-wild bird–with her lancing talons and dagger-for-a-beak and eyes-which-could-pierce-any-fortitude–decides to accept your humble offering of a mere few grams of chicken foot and acknowledge you with her presence, it’s like a blessing from an unseen Gaea. It’s this awe and wonder, every single time, at this gift… this crossing of inherent, instinctual boundaries by a deliberate act of some new form of acceptance and (dare I say it?) trust.

(Is it truly “new” though? Or is this the mere graze of a memory of ancestral days spent in a more intimate symbiosis with those around us–of days lived on and in the earth we were birthed from?)


Whatever it is, tomorrow is Saturday. And I will undoubtedly be returning home in about 21 hours completely crusted over in mud, mutes, and whichever other organic delights I manage to earn for my efforts. And next Friday night, I will dream eagerly of feathers.


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