While some people swing their entire lives on the same branch, others stay in constant flight. If I had to put myself in one of these two groups, I guess it would already be too late to get a nest nearby. That doesn’t mean I hadn’t enjoyed a lifetime within a neighborhood, to be born, raced and die in a small village, or maybe moving inside just one country. No. I actually envy those who have the fortune, the skill, the sharp eyes to find all the spices for the broth of joy in their groves.
Beauty and knowledge don’t belong to a spatial location. They are like weeds, growing under the ice and enduring the desert. Children always know where to find them faster than anyone. But something interesting comes to my mind when I think about human birds and our migrations. Thousands of seasons going west to east, north to south, overseas, across cliffs and ridges in a constant search for a better weather… What’s behind this nomadic aim? Fight for survival? An everlasting unsatisfaction? Or maybe the flying side of our nature?
But birds don’t till and humans... grow gardens. They are made to step on earth and if they fly for too long, their wings lack feathers to keep flapping. I’ll look at the orange sphere from this bowed window; there is no better view of the blue circle. The salt of this gentle sea will please my taste and in these tropical fields every fruit of the world will fall. I’ll extend my arm to pick them, one by one, effortlessly. I’ll find in them all the flavors ever known. I’ll juice them all. The perfect spot, the propitious coordinate, my garden plot, my motherland, finally.
