Becoming Is on My Mind

Listening to the Living World and Letting the Self Drift

Dear friend,

The air through the open window moves the parlour palm’s fronds—long, languid fingers; not unlike my own on the keyboard. The distant roar of the Meridian Way sounds like a waterfall. The occasional toot of an underground train as it surfaces on its way to the service depot to be cleaned and oiled and rested.

The sounds of life in the street below. Voices in languages I cannot place. The satisfyingly soft thud of a car door, closed by someone who cares for the vehicle.

It changes things when you realise that everything is alive in its own sweet way.

The plants are all looking happier since the attention we’re giving them. Some of it is practical stuff. Tuning into my Dad’s olive tree, it pointed out that its new position in the garden is not quite working out so well. The pot being dark slate was heating up in direct sunlight. I moved it back so the pot has shade, with its leaves still getting a lot of light. I imagined I felt the tree give a sigh of relief.

The magnolia is faring well in the shade of the wisteria, and the red robin bush keeps gaining depth of colour.

I can see a beautiful white-bibbed, mackerel-striped moggy in a neighbour’s window between the glass and the net curtains. There’s an opening at the top, and the little thing climbs out and perches as if on a shelf, watching the street.

My friend Scott’s birthday present arrived today. It’s a one-off design I made for him to commemorate his best friend Ray, who passed away recently. Ray was Scott’s daemon—a little mackerel-striped, white-bibbed tabby, just like the one in the window.

We’re still adjusting to a world without Ray’s physical presence. I’ll share the gift once Scott has it safely in his possession. I don’t want to spoil the surprise, in case he happens to read this.

I was a kid when I first discovered how good it feels to really think about what a person might like as a gift. It started choosing presents for my Nana.

Now it’s hit or miss.

Sometimes I can tune in; sometimes I’ve not a clue.

With this present for Scott, I knew it had to be something very specific, and original. a one-off, it was as if I was watching intelligence emerging into form through a process I was part of but not the sole actor.

Becoming is on my mind a lot recently.

The idea that we are one stable self-identity has slipped its moorings and is drifting off downstream. Why hold it back if it’s ready to float away?

The more we practise forgiveness, the more it flies home to us.

The more forgiving we are, the more internal peace bubbles up. The less we feel compelled to defend, the closer we get to our deepest identity.

Sitting, watching what I realise is a kitten on the cusp of becoming a cat under a streetlight, casting shadows as the very last rays colour the sky nicotine against the dusk.

Till tomorrow

Love
Mikey