A Reverie on Failure Part 8: Across the Road for a Change

Journal Entry

October 30

What is the evolutionary goal of murmuration, that thing where birds fly in great flocks in a kind of unison? And the din afterwards? I was walking into a new field, scouting as I went, when, in the distance, a roar of white noise became perceptible, then grew in volume, until it burst forth from the gloom of a rainy, snowy, October afternoon, as the chattering of a flock of birds, who landed as one in a single tree. There they sat, chattering, drowning out all other sounds of the woods for about ten minutes. They departed.

The normal—a doe has stepped into the field ahead of time! [A half hour elapses]. One turned into five, and they kept to the far edge, about 70 yards from me. I wasn’t really ready—obviously—so, even though they did not see me, they perceived a threat and made an exit into thicketed woods, not running, but nervous, too uncomfortable to stay in the field. There was no way for me to approach for a shot. Now, where was I? Ah—the normal sounds of edge habitat have returned.

An atheist friend of mine said once, in reference to the aesthetic argument for religion, the existence of God, “Humans are just easily awed.” I replied, “Yes, humans are easily awed.” That flock of birds awed me.

Commentary

Metaphors abound, and many are tempting in this cacophonous age of social media flocking together to drown out all other sounds, but one must maintain the muse, and metaphors are for parables and pedagogy. As for me, it really is about inquiry. The woods, and edge habitats in particular, are revealing something about existence. I really do wonder. I really am in awe at a flock of birds overtaking a tree for ten whole minutes, then veritably disappearing into the mists of October.

The sheer volume of those birds together diminished me for a moment; the tree of birds dwarfed my spirit, and then they were gone. At first, it was the sound of cacophony, but to qualify that sound as cacophonous is unfair. It was certainly not musical, but there was texture and movement in it; even though they were static in location for a moment, the murmuration continued in voice. Whatever it was had to be a spirited discussion of some sort, perhaps an evaluation of their latest synchronized excursion. Whatever it was seemed to be building them up, magnifying their purpose of many as one thing.

Whatever it was related to me.

Heraclitus is trying to relate this to those who would receive his word. He is famously quoted “You can’t step into the same river twice.” It’s about mutability, and the ineluctability of change, row-row-row-your-boat and all that. This whole October 30 excursion was a stark representation of change: change of venue; change of season; change of wildlife; change of mind. The way Heraclitus words it, however, is a little more relational. Here’s a better rendering of the fragment:

“Into a river twice into the same not may you actually step, for other, and still other waters are indeed flowing.” After 2500 years, the nut still remains uncracked.

See, it’s not about change per se. It’s about our relationship to change. That’s what he’s getting at: a personal relationship with a world that is changing. How do you engage a changing world? We remain convinced that there is an unchangeable realm somehow, like justice, or peace, or something like that, even for us religious folk, the kingdom of God, an unimaginable and unattainable ideal. The stars, for example, dance their immutable dance, but to us, the dance is always one off, one time different from yesterday to today because of the wobble of the earth on its rotational axis. So it was for me in that field: I had never experienced the textured blast of conversational birds, and then it was gone, followed by a very quiet mammal, a doe, a mother of the woods, who also melded away into thicket and was also gone.

How do we, who are convinced of the immutable realities, function in a world of ineluctability, the very word which embodies mutability (if words could incarnate)? We do the best we can, cajoling others to remain within reach of each other, and then…we test the boundary. Can’t we affect mutability, just a little bit? Albert Schweitzer put it succinctly, and perhaps best, when he said, “Jesus reached out to grab the wheel of history, and he was sucked under.”

Heraclitus and Schweitzer are birds of a feather in this regard. The very next Heraclitus fragment says, “Into the river into the same, to the ones who think to enter, other and still other waters are indeed flowing.” It seems to be the same sentiment repeated, but, again, note the relationship. In the first, he’s speaking to you. In the second, he’s speaking to us. We are prepossessed to think we can capture mutability, but the very notion is futile. It’s an interesting conundrum. I wonder at it. I am in awe of it.

Speaking of community:

Journal Entry

Our hunt came to an end early on Monday. At the moments before sunset, when prey are moving, coyotes suddenly took up a tremendous pack-howling not fifty yards from my position, somewhere hidden behind a thicket. The woods had become very quiet, unusually so. A few minutes later, Mike and I heard a horrifying barking and yelping sound, certainly of a canid of some sort, but in our combined years in the woods, neither of us had ever heard such a sound. I took a recording of it with my phone and put it up on Twitter with a query. Within minutes: “Google Vixen’s Scream.”

Sure enough, that was the exact sound, a fox’s mating call.

Hunt ruined. Hence new field. Jays have been screaming nonstop.