Feel a bit sheepish about all my whining yesterday.  Think part of it is due to this damned drought.  At a time when we should be drifting through a living emerald we are instead shuffling about in a dust bowl.

But there are compensations.  This photo is at the end of the Gatton Clifton Road where it meets the Toowoomba Gatton Road, at a T section.  Some wag thought it would be funny to put up a 100kph sign about 50 feet from the yield sign. 

I'll Carry On Until I Can't

I have to give myself permission to have a day off.  Richard is away until sometime after lunch so have the morning to do (or not do!) whatever I want.  Have stumbled through most of the chores although still have to vacuum, especially as Natalia and Nairobi both demanded to be brushed and wisps of grey or black hair floated down the hall before I could catch them.  But I'm not in a hurry to vacuum.  I'm not in a hurry at all.  My next 'must do' is the noon crow nosh up.  Until then I can bludge.

I remember after Mom died my then husband Wayne dreamed of her.  He dreamed she was in a beautiful place where she could rest from the rigours of life.  A phrase which has been running through my head is, 'I'll carry on until I can't'.  I'm afraid if I let any one of these balls juggling in the air above me fall, then a Bad Thing will happen.  A Bad Thing would be letting Parkinsons have its way with Richard without opposition.  A Bad Thing would be for something to happen to Richard (a fall, a faint) and me not know.  A Bad Thing would be loss of mental acuity or physical ability in me.  A Bad Thing would be shame because I'd stopped trying to be this and that and whatever, that I'd just stopped trying.  A Bad Thing would be to give in to fear, to depression.  A Bad Thing would be to Surrender.  Tears form in my eyes as I write this.   I'm tired and a bit sad.  I understand why after someone dies they just get to stop and catch their breath for awhile.  Life is lovely, life is adventure, but unless you're comatose, it's exhausting too.

I think a vivid dream I had this morning is leaving an aftertaste.  In the dream I met a man.  He was articulate, intelligent, compassionate and very interested in me.  I didn't have an affair, there was no sex but I did kiss him and when I kissed him I clung to him like a drowning woman clings to a lifeboat.  In the dream Richard was away overnight.  I was so tempted to sleep with this man and I did, fully clothed, get into bed with him, but nothing happened except that I was ashamed and exhilarated at the same time. 

I love Richard.  I admire him.  I will see us through all this and do whatever it takes to try and keep him well and happy for as long as I can.  But there is a personal toll.  I'm no longer a lover and a wife.  I am a carer.  I am watchful all the time.  I am on guard all the time.  On his good days, I relax a little.  On his bad days, I man the ramparts and march.  Conversations are of the garden variety.  There are areas we do not go.  There are many areas we cannot go.  I do not talk down to him but I simplify. 

It's lonely and I feel sorry for myself which brings guilt when I have so much and most people in the world have so little.  Lonely, self-pitying, guilt-ridden and ashamed.  It's a slippery slope to climb.  I am of a cheerful nature and this state of mind does not sit well yet it is difficult to change by an act of will.

I suppose that's the crux.  I have brought my will to bear on so many things and changed them.  Energy, effort and belief.  If I want to do something badly enough I can do it.  (Think that's why I'm so fierce at the gym.  Working out Really Hard is something I can control).  But I cannot will away the Parkinsons which has robbed me of my husband.  I cannot will this house to sell sooner rather than later.  I cannot will my sadness away.

So do I surrender?  I read uplifting posts from The Tattooed Buddha and Rebelle; warrior posts about fierce priestess types who grab Life by the throat and wring it dry with their Mach II creative power, divinely inspired posts about the Divine in all of us, pragmatic posts about the life we chose and the lessons learned. 

It makes me tired.  So do I surrender?  Maybe I'll just vacuum and feed the crows.

Crow update, Edgar, Blanche and Blackie

Yesterday I released the two wild crows.  They had been here a week, had had long vocal discussions with the local crows and were flying as well as they could in a limited aviary.  Opened the door and Blackie flew out straight away.  He flew heavily but competently and didn't stop until he'd made a tree across the creek.  Whitie however snagged at the door.  I'd pushed the door open as wide as it would go but he still got stuck behind the door.  I went to the front of the aviary to herd him out of the dead end he'd got himself into.  By the time he was clear he couldn't fly.  He got to the garden around the deck and lost momentum.  I caught him again and put him back in the aviary where he seems to fly quite well from one end to the other. 

Nevertheless I'll hang onto him for another week as Edgar has graduated from the spare room to being Whitie's (should rename him/her Blanche) roommate.  Much better for him to be out in the world with lots to interest him while still having the protection of the cubby built into the aviary.  I'd put him in a cocky cage the day before as he'd discovered he didn't have to stay in the container.  Life was much more interesting from atop the stored boxes.  That was fine except for the copious amounts of poop Edgar generates.  The cocky cage was a short term solution.  Poor guy, he sat in one spot on one perch for 24 hours.  Not scared, just not knowing how to get around and onto the other perches.  In the aviary he soon worked out how he could climb along the branches to get from one end to the other.  I put gum tree limbs from the ground to the perches in case he falls so he can climb up again.  He's old enough now to start tackling some of the physical aspects of a crow's life.  Flying is another matter entirely but one step or crow hop at a time.

Seeing the two crows together, despite the difference in age, they appear quite different.  Edgar's head shape is rounder and fuller than Blanche's head.  Whether it's baby fluff I don't know.  His eyes seem smaller too.  Blanche's eyes are paler while Edgar's are definitely blue.  Of course the white feathers of Blanche throw off identification as well.  Looked up crows and ravens in the bird book today and don't know whether they are Australian Ravens or Torresian crows.  The immature descriptions aren't much help - and they all seem to be distantly related anyway. 

Edgar, coiffed and ready to go.

Just a quick post so that I can attach the latest picture of Edgar - who is, after all, entering his cute fuzzy crow stage. 

He actually took food from my fingers twice today.  At his choosing  If I hold a tidbit of food out to him he does the baby crow routine; head back, mouth agape, accompanied by the Baby Crow Grumble, a continuous complaint which is not at all displeasing.

Notice the flight feathers of his deformed right wing break off half way up the shaft and that he has not removed the keratin sheath on any of them unlike his left normal wing which is flight ready. 

The two wild crow juveniles are flying well enough to be released now.  Not sure what the benefits are of keeping them caged.  The local crow population, or a representative of the local crow population, stops in the nearby silky oak tree at dusk for a good old chin wag.  Is he welcoming or warning them.

I lean toward releasing them sooner rather than later.  If they are still obviously youngsters perhaps the adults will see them less as a threat and more of something needing their protection.  Not sure the juveniles will benefit by keeping them in captivity but have come up with a plan.  Edgar is close to being too big for his carrier.  He can't fly (and I'm not sure he ever will) but he is so tall now that he sometimes poops over the edge.  If he decides he is ready to leave 'the nest' than he will have to be removed to the snake safe aviary.  A cocky cage is too small and of course he can't just wander around loose.  So the day he stumbles into the adult world, the resident wild juveniles will be released (after a hefty breakfast and lunch),

Black and White, Who Knew?

The brighter the light, the blacker the shadows. 

The blackness in the world seems blacker than usual, although beheadings are probably less cruel than drawing and quartering - our well-honed talent for cruel and unusual punishments is breathtaking.  History is no more or less cruel than what is displayed via computer or television today.  We just have better access to the creative psychopaths than before the advent of modern media.

At the same time however, our capacity for giving, for compassion, for love is greater than ever.  No matter how awful the world seems - and watching the news which thrives on and indeed is a venue for the Theatre of the Cruel, it is matched, even exceeded by goodness.  People donating time money and effort to helping the millions of refugees left adrift in the world.  Governments can be merciless and cold (witness Australia's treatment of refugees held like criminals in 'detention centres' - prisons is a more accurate description) but individuals shine. 

If our collective dreaming was of good happy things would reality be any less real?  Is Heaven boring and is that why we dream the shadows as well as the light?  Is there any point in being good when goodness cannot exist without evil to measure it against?  Is goodness relative to the density of evil?

The universe cannot be black despite the absolute blackness of deep space because of the presence of starpricks of light.  There is no atmosphere to diffuse the light or to soften the blackness.  Absolute light and absolute black.  

I get worked up about things.  Lots of things, from the knuckle dragging Neanderthal Roosh Valizadeh who advocates the legalization of rape on private property to the head in the sand mentality of governments, corporations and multinationals in regard to climate change.  My neighbours rile me with their cavalier attitude to the animals in their charge or their environmental vandalism credentials (which are five star!).  Like a mainsail buffeted by wind, at the mercy of an unattended tiller I lurch from one aghast and disgusted episode to another.  

This has to stop.

It's wearing me out.  

The next stage is to figure out how.  I suspect it has to do with meditation and the stillness of the unbuffeted center.

Two more crows arrived today.  They are flighted, wild and very skittish.  Karen has been looking after them for a few weeks.  I'll keep them for a few weeks, let them strengthen their flight muscles while they panic trying to get away from me.  The resident wild crows have already been talking to them which is great.  The galahs, sharing the other half of the double aviary, absolutely panicked when the crows were let go in the other half.  I'm sure they thought they were hawks put there to devour them.  They've settled down since this morning.

One of the crows has white in some of his flight feathers.  Hard to get a good look as they are so wild and panic fly/crash when I enter the aviary.    Have been in twice, once to put in a bowl of water and a second time to leave some food.  The black crow gobbled up most if not all of the food.  Not sure if the other one got any or not.  Will put out more food soon.  They have to get used to me at least to the point where I can put food and water in.  Don't want them injuring feathers or wings in their effort to get away from me.

Karen had a look at Edgar.  Thinks the wing might be deformed.  As I thought there is no broken bone to account for it.  She has no more idea than I whether he will fly or not.  Asked if the droopy wings are normal and she said yes, her crows also had trouble keeping them folded to their body when they were his age.  They are much older and look like adult crows save for a certain gangliness. 

Karen and I worked on a couple of art projects.  She is drawing a pencil sketch of one of her daughters.  I started another watercolour project involving a cat.  Am not using the techniques taught in the watercolour pencil book partly because I'm not using any pencils.  And I'm sure the way I'm doing is not the way watercolour should be used.  Nevertheless, so far so good.  I do like the subtlety of watercolour, the palest of pale shading.  Because it's so slow (I'm using the smallest brush - what is the number?  See, I never remember details like that) I can work the details.  So far, in mistakes I've made (and they've been legion) I've been able to mop up the offending bit with paper towel. 

Fun!

I should write two separate posts as what I want to write about today are unrelated, but as I don't always get here when I want to (or should!) I'll combine the two.

First of all, Edgar.  He continues to thrive.  He has supermodel legs.  They go on forever and are comically topped with this scruffy pin feathered little (in comparison) body.  There are photos of baby crows in Pinterest; all black and fluffy in duck-like down.  He's nothing like that.  He has adult feathers, most of them still encased in keratin somewhere along the shaft.  His eye is pale blue and as he grows and grows stronger, he is more responsive. 

Two days ago I was present when he had a wing flap.  It was then I noticed one wing is noticeably shorter than the other.  Not only shorter but some of the flight feathers are partially turned outward rather than lying flat against his body.  Don't know whether this will affect his ability to fly or not.  Don't know whether it was the reason he was screaming in the long grass.  For such a vocal baby there wasn't a crow in sight - and we have many local crows.  Was he kicked from the nest because he was imperfect?  Nature is not sentimental.  Staying alive is too hard.  Anything that is compromised from birth is ejected/rejected without moral reflection. 

There was a reason he was found by us.  He put everything he had into that metronomic squawking and there was very little left to live upon when he was found which is why he was so weak and ill to begin with.  But I thought Rupert (the rainbow lorikeet) and Lionel (the galah) were fostered by me for a reason too.  I thought they would live - and they did until they were released and then, in a longer or shorter time, they were killed.  No use pondering why (he was found) or if (he can fly), best just do my best for him and see what happens.  In the meantime he makes me smile. 


The other thing I want to cover isn't nearly as jolly.  Much of Tasmania has been on fire.  World Heritage areas on the west coast have burnt to a crisp.  Thousand year old pencil pines gone forever. An interviewed scientist (just tried to find the article and can't) said it was a sign of 'system collapse'.  Another article (http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-01-29/glikson-the-dilemma-of-a-climate-scientist/7123246 ) states that up to a third of climate change scientists believe the situation is far worse than what is fed to the public and that if we don't stop using fossil fuels now we are doomed.

This kept me awake most of the night.  Not because I'm doomed.  I'm 60.  I'll probably eke out another few decades before the planet becomes unlivable (or perhaps, in an effort to save the planet, everyone over 60 will be euthanized).  What kept me staring into the darkness was the plight of all those that don't have a voice.  From the unborn to all the creatures; land, sea and air, which will die through no fault of their own.  It breaks my heart.  If we want to destroy one another, so be it, but must we drag everything else down with us?

So it started me thinking.  Despite the human capacity for self-sacrific, despite our intelligence, our urge to beauty, our creativity, spirituality, generosity - we are a species seemingly doomed to failure.  In the scheme of things, meaning the Infinite Universe, it's not a big deal.  Other beings no doubt have come into existence, shone for a while and dimmed into oblivion for various reasons.  Inborn hubris leads me to think humans are rather special.  We have the ability to ponder, to reflect, to learn  and to know joy.  It would be lovely if those attributes were the ones that carried the day.  For us and every other living thing.  Unfortunately it seems greed, hubris, selfishness, fear and short-sightedness carry the day.  And the earth.

On the other hand, if it's only a dream of Maya, we'll all wake up and shake our heads at the strangeness and overriding sadness of the dream.  I wonder which reality is true.