We’re on Lantau island to the west of Hong Kong island, still part of the territory. Part of the the Other system of the One country.
Our house, seen from a drone, is a thick “I”. Aligned north and south. To our East is Hong Kong Island the South China Sea, the Philippines, the Pacific Ocean, British Columbia, California. To our North and West is China. The Mainland. Our mother. Our sovereign.
I’m sitting in our lounge listening to Jing play Chopin on her beautiful Bösendorfer Grand.
I hear a cacophony of birds next door. Sounds like they’re delighting in life, chirruping their love of our dear planet.
I wait for a break in Jing’s practice, and say “listen to the birds having a wow of a time”.
We go out to watch and listen. We see they’re fighting, not dancing. They’re squabbling over something terribly important to them. Their whole life and focus taken up with squawking and spitting and shrilling as they do.
And it makes me think how we all are in our bubbles. We humans and our deep-dish haggles, births, marriages, elections and wars. We think them all so important.
We think during the battle that that’s all there is to the world. That’s all there is to life. But we’re just like the birds. Obsessed. Yelling, screaming, for our rights. For me. For me. Squawking and Skittering.
