I know at least one reason why I resist un-packing all the way is that sense of finality - if I'm still living out of boxes, I'm still in transition. If I'm still in transition, then I can't be pinned down. This fulfills two survivals: 1) it's harder to hit a moving target, and 2) it's easier to forgive faults if there's lots of other stuff going on - as in it's easy to forgive something dropped of a juggler who is juggling 2 eggs, 7 bean-bags and a chainsaw on the deck of a ship sailing under storm; less so a juggler juggling one (1) bean-bag of disproportionately large size on level ground. I think it's related to why I've never particularly wanted to own a house - too much thereness makes me fidgety. Life is much easier to bear while I cherish the illusion I could slip off in the night.
What I logged on to write about was neither of these, but of the great joy of seeing the peregrine falcons hunting over my building on Sunday afternoon. sharkins and I were walking back down the hill after our pizza, and I noticed in passing the two birds circling, lazy against the sky. Part of what I love about Capitol Hill and First Hill is the wild life, squirrels and crows and a huge flock of
We stood there some moments in the middle of the sidewalk and watched them swoop over us and around, the sweet double helix of their intertwined flight as awesome as any pillared cathedral, any temple karyatid holding up the blue vault of heaven. As often as I find the universe intricate and perverse, sometimes a little is enough.