James, I can answer your last question. Many years ago, and I remember this clearly, I was considering something deeply and while doing so, I was unconsciously brushing my lips over my right shoulder. And then, without thinking, I dropped a kiss on my own shoulder! I immediately felt highly self conscious and embarrassed -- nobody was watching me, but who does that?? -- and also perplexed. Now I think It was a completely spontaneous and instinctive reaction to the sensation of something pleasant against my lips. It's like when you hold your baby in your arms and inhale his scent and move your lips over the soft down of his head, you can't help but kiss it. So, no, you don't forget how to kiss or what a kiss is :-)
James, you’ve folded grief, awe, memory, & biology into something so soft-footed it doesn’t feel like an essay at all, but a sitting-with. The sparrow, your son, the hollowness of May—it all echoes. I love that you didn’t rush the final question, either. That line about the levees of our senses being breached—yes. That’s exactly it. We’re more exposed than ever, yet feeling less. Beautiful.
Thank you James …your gift to the world is your sense of wonder and ability to explore it in words and images…and your reverence and gift of marvelling at what’s happening around you and in you and an uncanny ability too, to become part of it…. I enjoyed your reading…listening to your rhythms …a generous gift.
The piece about birth and the unfolding of an infant life including that of the feathered kind, is exquisite. Now I know why I joined Substack.
"for us, a wholly manufactured and unfelt version of life encroaches." It is a terrible grief to have been disconnected from or destroyed so much of our own birthright, of the sensuous world around us and our experience of it. I feel so depleted by the encroachment of the manufactured (ie meaningless) life.
The vulnerability of parenting, something shared by all our other-then-human kin. So many people don't like corvids, but I do. Their voice is a part of the world, and we'd be poorer without it, raucous and demanding as it may be.
Thank you for another tender and far reaching piece, James. It brought to focus my own frequent kissing of my dog, welcoming new leaves and departing fledglings. I relish the brief moment following a kiss when things are stilled.
James, I can answer your last question. Many years ago, and I remember this clearly, I was considering something deeply and while doing so, I was unconsciously brushing my lips over my right shoulder. And then, without thinking, I dropped a kiss on my own shoulder! I immediately felt highly self conscious and embarrassed -- nobody was watching me, but who does that?? -- and also perplexed. Now I think It was a completely spontaneous and instinctive reaction to the sensation of something pleasant against my lips. It's like when you hold your baby in your arms and inhale his scent and move your lips over the soft down of his head, you can't help but kiss it. So, no, you don't forget how to kiss or what a kiss is :-)
Ha! That's good to know Jess.
James, you’ve folded grief, awe, memory, & biology into something so soft-footed it doesn’t feel like an essay at all, but a sitting-with. The sparrow, your son, the hollowness of May—it all echoes. I love that you didn’t rush the final question, either. That line about the levees of our senses being breached—yes. That’s exactly it. We’re more exposed than ever, yet feeling less. Beautiful.
Thank you Kim.
Beautiful writing, thank-you.
Making slow and steady, watching and listening, touching and smelling your own time, is a gift we can give.
Thanks Jilly!
Chapeau James, both this and your read essay written with tender reverence. Soul's breath is birdsong. Gorgeous writing.
Thank you Amantine.
Just preordered the book!
Thanks Nikki! Hope you enjoy it.
Beautiful.
Thank you Dottie
The line about sensing and feeling is priceless. Thank you, James.
Thanks Janisse
Thank you James …your gift to the world is your sense of wonder and ability to explore it in words and images…and your reverence and gift of marvelling at what’s happening around you and in you and an uncanny ability too, to become part of it…. I enjoyed your reading…listening to your rhythms …a generous gift.
The piece about birth and the unfolding of an infant life including that of the feathered kind, is exquisite. Now I know why I joined Substack.
Thanks Win, there are some wonderful things on Substack
Beautiful. Thank you
Each one more beautiful
Thanks Katea!
"for us, a wholly manufactured and unfelt version of life encroaches." It is a terrible grief to have been disconnected from or destroyed so much of our own birthright, of the sensuous world around us and our experience of it. I feel so depleted by the encroachment of the manufactured (ie meaningless) life.
Thanks Carmine. There's still so much beauty left though, and we can grow it.
Yes, indeed!
The vulnerability of parenting, something shared by all our other-then-human kin. So many people don't like corvids, but I do. Their voice is a part of the world, and we'd be poorer without it, raucous and demanding as it may be.
True Carri, their voices are part of the world.
Thank you for another tender and far reaching piece, James. It brought to focus my own frequent kissing of my dog, welcoming new leaves and departing fledglings. I relish the brief moment following a kiss when things are stilled.
Thanks Nick.
Thank you 🤍