"The mind is an old crow"

"Thought-Work" by John O'Donohue.

Off course from the frail music sought by words
And the path that always claims the journey,
In the pursuit of a more oblique rhythm,
Creating mostly its own geography,
The mind is an old crow
Who knows only to gather dead twigs,
Then take them back to the vacancy
Between the branches of the parent tree
And entwine them around the emptiness
With silence and unfailing patience
Until what was fallen, withered and lost
Is now set to fill with dreams a nest.

"Though-Work" is one of many wonderful poems found in O'Donohue's poetry book Conamara Blues. John O'Donohue was a monk, philosopher and poet from County Clare, Ireland (he died earlier this year). My sister, Della, had gifted me with his poetry book when I visited her at her home in Ballinaclash, County Wicklow, Ireland, a few years back. She hadn't intended to, however; she had first wanted to give me an angel painting from the Angel Art Gallery (this gallery has since moved to southern France and has been re-christened the Angel Art Sanctuary). So, one afternoon, Della and I went to the Angel Art Gallery to find the one angel that would have a message for me. But, although I walked among the angels, I did not hear anyone call to me.

My sister was disappointed, I know.

Later, we went to a small bookstore in a small village, Arklow. I think the bookstore was called the Inkwell. While browsing the shelves, a slim, small, sky blue book jumped off the shelves and into my hands. I began reading it and immediately fell into a spell in the middle of the Inkwell. Awestruck, I hardly heard my sister come up behind me. Turning, I waved the blue book like a butterfly before her eyes, and said excitedly, "Here is my angel! I found my angel!"