The End of The Road

There is none.

Dear friend,

I look up and see a seagull on my neighbours roof, sitting, preening in the morning sun. The white of their feathers, incandescent like an over exposed image, are incredibly soft and strong and light.

Their softness brings up a memory which I’m hesitant to share.

This might be one to skip if you are feeling fragile or vulnerable today.

It was a year or two back walking Zara when a storm blew up. It had been threatening all afternoon but when it came it was with a great violence of wind that brought down branches and we found trees pulled and pushed by gusty fingers, felled by the winds the following morning.

We were walking into the gale on the canal tow path when I saw something near the lock on the ground. From a distance it looked like a white plastic bag, which wouldn’t be unusual. Plastic bags filled with cans of beer are emptied and left by the sad souls who seek solace by the water’s edge. There are no bins. It doesn’t occur to them to take their empties home, but then maybe there is not much of a home to take things back to.

Zara went ahead to look but turned back as she got the measure of the white thing which was a young gull, maybe no more than a year old, that had been caught in the storm.

Its injuries were horrific, eyes rolling in pain with it’s head thrown back in agony. I ran through the options quickly and realised the kindest thing would to be to end its pain. If I brought it to the 24 hour emergency vet clinic it would most likely die on the way after suffering hours before it could get any relief.

It would then never fly again. The storm had broken its wing so badly it was holding on by a sinew.

I did what I thought best, and asking for its forgiveness, ended its young life. Shaken, I found a resting place for its body out of sight of the kids who would come the next day and pick up the fallen branches and throw them in the river for their dogs.

Walking home in the fading light with the wind roaring in my ears and the rain needling my face and hands. Earlobes red and stinging. Heart heavy for the shortness of that young birds life. Shocked by my role in the violent turn of events. Past the graffiti’ed railway bridge where the fly tippers visit. A hollowness opening up within.

I wished we could soar, me and the gull together.

To have wings and rise above the troubles of life on earth.

Much worse happens every day here, but we have to find our way. To feel the suffering of others is the meaning of the word compassion. To ‘suffer-with’.

It is not weakness.

Weakness is on display in the attitude of men, mostly men, in suits, mostly blue, staring with glassy certitude into the camera promising death.

Looking back up the gull on the neighbours roof has flown off someplace. Maybe to the marshes. Soaring against the background of a powder blue English summer sky.

Later we will visit friends and laugh and share lunch.

It will be hot and for a few hours there will be nothing to do but enjoy each other’s company. To hear the stories we’ve missed.

That young gull soars forever in my mind on silver wings, in a heaven for winged creatures.

There is no end of the road.

It pays to remind yourself every day.

With poetry and prayer and song thanks.

Whatever works for you.

There is nothing but Spirit.

Spirit is eternal.

Till tomorrow

Love

Mikey