Private Yoga Instructor Santa Monica & Los Angeles Westside private yoga classes in-home or on-location Jennifer Pastiloff Contact Jennifer (310-926-0172) Yoga at home - comfort and convenience! |
The Collected Works of Jennifer Pastiloff ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Birdwatching I return. After having been interrupted for so long Like reading a book, looking up from the page to face the landscape, that gorgeous canopy: the red maple, the black locust and white ash, the black birch and sugar maple, the white oak- all those trees! The ribs of gray rock under the dark mantle of matted leafage. And back to the text again. Which is real? What I am looking at now? What I think I saw? What I think I know? The words on the page? The thing that the words are trying to describe? Looking up at that landscape for a moment as fast as a slow wing beat before putting my head back down. I never lift my eyes again from the page, this page from this same sentence. I have lived inside this tunnel of words, this tightly wound black and white sentence, these very familiar letters, for seven safe years now. Until you returned. And I was willing. I finally saw that beautiful alternate-leaved dogwood in full bloom, the young forest with so much to offer, so much new life and old life intertwined- the shagbark hickory chestnut sighing, it’s arms muscling at the sky, it’s scent distinct, somehow masculine. I have lived in this cave of noise until I found you. All around me, so much to see- but with my head down neck bent, eyes half-mast, I missed so much. I was so unquiet. You are as capable as raw bone, of becoming anything. The evolution of bone to bead, that astounding transformation of something so seemingly unmalleable into a morsel of beauty: a tiny bead! A chiseled thing, heavy with it’s own personality and structure. It’s intricacies detailed, experiences carved into the body of the bead make it stand out from every other. Much like you. You who has become as migratory as a blue and white Flycatcher breeding in the summer before heading south for autumn. Can we ever get our minds around how things go from one thing into something else entirely? Can we wrap our minds around ideas as big as change. Can we keep expanding into things we never thought we would be? Can our own humanness astound us? You can't stay. You are a Song-bird. All the unseen beauty in the world. I saw through matter: through skin, through flesh, through tissues and blood cells into the wild. You did this. And yet, I cannot look back! All this unseen beauty in the world. We still have so much to touch, so many rocks still have to leave their weight in our palms as we rub out the seasons on the stone's belly and feel what the wind did to it's skin, what the rain and mud had to say. The verity of gravel, the sounds of the warblers as they sing their praises and show off for the other birds, the detail of the damp and the way it enters your body and settles like a fog inside of you, a slight coat, just enough to feel alive. All this unseen beauty. We are as safe as houses. As long as we keep our eyes open we are as safe as houses still settling into themselves, even after years. The creaking and adjusting. The resettling. I have always known you. j.pastiloff |
 |
| |
 |