The 35th: Boho And Buzzard Lore

Why didn’t I post this? I don’t know, stories left untold, fear of waking the dead? Actually, these were originally three separate drafts from the same day, but I stitched them together. 

Today Tim usually feels very far away and long, long ago, like a myth, a fairy tale. But, still, he creeps in once in a while, reminds me not to falter, or forget.

A wise woman once said that you should live in such a way that you manifest, day by day, the person you want to be. Little things, daily things, maybe weekly, monthly, over the years, every now and then sort of things, you sort the details, plan a path towards the dream you have, what makes you happy? The way you find the path back, find the self you lost somewhere along the way, this is that sort of thing. Well, course, I always take the long way, the road not travelled by the general populace, more scenic. 

I remember watching them, standing there in the trees like some ancient angels, they always reminded me of these angels of death from this movie I saw long ago, some German trilogy, and the opening scenes are of all these black winged figures standing atop those sort of brutal block Soviet era type apartments, a sea of them, and these black figures, watching, waiting, for people to die. The movie was about an angel who fell, one who felt empathy and caught a little girl who fell off a balcony, and so the angel fell to the earth and lost its wings, as per the rules. The movie is this existential story of what is so precious about life that an angel would risk losing their wings to save it. 

Every year in April since, you know, I’ve seen them in that pose, like sentinels of the gods. 

Unposted Post December 20th, 2017

The whole landscape had been dipped in crystal white overnight, as we walked beneath the snowy hollow ways, above us they circled, around and around.

It was February 2008 and my world had completely crashed and I felt lost within that sea of people that ring the Greater Toronto Area, enrapture to all its vices, as was I at one time. Yet, in the time I spent, 5 years in total, I had turned my back on everything that had once meant something to me. Everything I grew on my 12th-storey balcony died, I stopped taking pictures, something I guess had died inside me after the end of my marriage, and then Mom died in 2001, and off I had escaped to the wilds of the GTA, thinking the change would do me good.

on the ice feb 2008

Well, it didn’t. And it did. Eventually.

I believe it was the spring the year before he died before he knew what was growing inside, it was as I first broke free of the forest behind the lake, and made our way onto the back road and there they were, wings spread facing the dying rays of the afternoon sun. In all their regal, assured glory, basking in the warmth.

“Buzzard or Vulture teaches the power of purification of the mind, body and spirit. Vulture aids accomplishing tasks through great patience and vision, using your sense of smell and discernment, and how to glide and soar with your own energy. He teaches efficiency in actions and promises that changes are imminent. He shows how to restore harmony of thoughts and feelings so one can reach new heights with little effort. Buzzards will aid in uncovering truths, clarifying previous conceptions, and allow to see and hear subtle hidden qualities using intuition and awareness. Buzzard can teach confidence and the ability to stand with dignity and soar with clarity and purpose.”


That place changed me or changed me back.

turkey vulture on back road - 2011


as such things go, here
between the cedars and bricks
back here in my nook

The muddled murk of wants perceived needs and desires that serve merely to distract, the ones that seem so vital, so there, maybe it’s just the weather, perhaps menopause, as the sunshine brightens the days, the garden awakens from its winter slumber, at peace is the simplest description, that’s how it feels. When I try to analysis the why, well that’s where I get stuck.

It could be all of those things, actually. Like this stew I’ve been slow cooking over the years. Throwing in pieces of this and that as I go.

Or maybe it is just the change of job. Hard as it can be sometimes, as tiring, demanding, and rewarding, it’s like it cleanses me, somehow, with sweat equity.

Live with less, get more. More smiles, more joy, a euphoric sense of beauty. More time, more of the things that make me happy, make life full of meaning.

Simplicity is a mindset, as much as a lifestyle. A way of being, day to day. A shift in things just wanted or needed, towards desires and personal style. A way of being.

I have become bohemian, the one who stands left of centre.

BO • HE • MI • AN: a person who has informal and unconventional social habits, especially an artist or writer..

It’s not just about whether or not I have money, although it does factor in. It’s also about…what do I really need? What makes me happy? What is it that matters? How do I want to live?

I look around me and see these people with all these things. Flitting here and there, buying more things. Stockpiling things like these things are the be all and end all. And even going into debt sometimes, in their pursuit of things. As we’ve all fallen prey at one time or another to the pervasive marketing that surrounds us,  I want to not be an acquirer of mere things. More than a hunk of flesh masquerading as happy, out in pursuit of happiness via my credit card.

Some things are important, and others are just not, but each of us has our own list. Suppose one could then say I’m refining my list; and questioning the contents, often.

Perhaps wisdom is setting in, like this fog of days the past has lifted, the rolling, tumultuous waves are growing gentler, kinder, more worn at the edges, frayed. I’ve been broken and bled dry.

I have slowly, gradually, taken things away. Not all at once, and not all by my hand. Some have just happened. Through this natural attrition, I find that I thrive on less, and less, and less.


One thought on “The 35th: Boho And Buzzard Lore

Comments or Otherwise

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.