Once they were everywhere. Little brown specks chirruping through the corridors and verandas, pecking, darting, their wings winnowing the air as they rose abruptly lured by a morsel elsewhere....No one spared the house sparrow a thought except when you kept something out to dry. Those bloody little nuisances we called them as they fearlessly invaded and seized what was there.
Their music was so part of our everyday that like the ticking of a clock we grew desensitized to it. Instead our eys searched, our ears sought, our souls craved for a vision of more exotic birds.
In a little book I kept where I noted down the birds I had seen, the spoarrow never made an appearance. The sparrow was a forgotten bird.
Perhpas using the word forgotten gives me the benefit of doubt. Of an oversight. Of a lapse in memeory. The truth being much more brutal. Since it was around, I hardly gave it a second glance. The sparrow was a neglected bird.
Over the years a silence crept in and a blankness. The house sparrow no longer chirruped. Its omnipresence erased in one clean sweep. It occurs to me how perverse we are. When we have it within arm's reach, we seldom value it. As if abundance in some way erodes all that is noble and beautiful about it.
So here I am searching everywhere now for one glimpse of that house sparrow. I need to remind myself that unless I appreciate the commonplace, it could disappear forever. A wealth of memories that have the unique ability to transport me into another time and help me deal with what could be an ugly moment.
Forgetting is also about remembering the right things.
Their music was so part of our everyday that like the ticking of a clock we grew desensitized to it. Instead our eys searched, our ears sought, our souls craved for a vision of more exotic birds.
In a little book I kept where I noted down the birds I had seen, the spoarrow never made an appearance. The sparrow was a forgotten bird.
Perhpas using the word forgotten gives me the benefit of doubt. Of an oversight. Of a lapse in memeory. The truth being much more brutal. Since it was around, I hardly gave it a second glance. The sparrow was a neglected bird.
Over the years a silence crept in and a blankness. The house sparrow no longer chirruped. Its omnipresence erased in one clean sweep. It occurs to me how perverse we are. When we have it within arm's reach, we seldom value it. As if abundance in some way erodes all that is noble and beautiful about it.
So here I am searching everywhere now for one glimpse of that house sparrow. I need to remind myself that unless I appreciate the commonplace, it could disappear forever. A wealth of memories that have the unique ability to transport me into another time and help me deal with what could be an ugly moment.
Forgetting is also about remembering the right things.
