Meditation on Wings

---

'Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity' says poet Li-Young Lee.

Meditating on wings—-thanks to raising generations of pigeons—- I wonder by extension, perhaps, we have art as a consolation for not being able to fly?

---

On my balcony

---

Here is more poetry, by Lee, that explores these themes:

One Heart

Look at the birds. Even flying
is born

out of nothing. The first sky
is inside you, open

at either end of day.
The work of wings
was always freedom, fastening
one heart to every falling thing.

By association, think dreams of flying are auspicious (I miss those).

Observing pigeons, and reading the lives of saints has afforded me quite a bit of opportunity to mull over wings, both physical and metaphorical.

Here's a few aphorisms that I wrote on the subject:

At a certain altitude, if our wings are large and powerful enough, there is no need to flap them - we simply soar.

To remain in fine, flying form, our wings require careful, constant grooming.

Wings are needed not only to fly, but also to keep our balance.

---

And, because in spiritual matters, Rumi
always has something beautiful to say, here’s an echo of sorts, in his words:

BirdWings

Your grief for what you’ve lost lifts a mirror
up to where you’re bravely working.

Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here’s the joyful face you’ve been wanting to see.

Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
if it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.

Your deepest presence is in every small contracting
and expanding,
The two as beautifully balanced and coordinated
as birdwings.

---