Chicken Little: The Inside Story (A Jungian ... - Inner City Books

6
A Stitch in Time
The singing birds, the flowers that open their eyes, each in their own
season; childbirth, sickness, pain; like an enigmatic inscription I
once found in a book—“Thu 9.00”—what does it all mean? What is
it all for? The longest road, even in the long run, is usually longer
than the shortest. That is obvious to most, though some may deny it.
But that the longest road has the most delightful lanes, inviting towpaths,
this is not so generally known.
Were every country lane to be swallowed up tomorrow, wiped
from the face of the earth without a trace, birds would surely cease
to sing, flowers would close their eyes, out of respect.
—Adam Brillig (from an old notebook).
Looks like the beginning of Creation out there. Must have snowed
all night. The trees are heavy with white. Quiet, no traffic. I see the
moon and can almost hear it. It’s so cozy up here, I think I’ll just
stay under the covers until the sun comes up. One of these days it
will be my last.
The attic suits me. How very different from years ago, when as a
young man I thrived on the excitement of the street. You never
knew who or what might turn up—just around the next corner.
Anything was possible. That feeling kept me going in bad times.
And when things didn’t pan out the way I wanted, I tore off a finely
crafted rant. In those days I imagined I could make a difference. I
mingled, made speeches, directed committees; I was often the life
of the party. All for nought. My pearls of wisdom, fresh off the
press, fell like stools from a mule. I can’t remember now why I
thought anyone would be interested. Vanity, I suppose, what else.
My life then was little more than a show for others. Some of it
still is, of course; you have to go through the motions or you’d be
all alone. Well, I don’t mind a few motions if that’s what it takes. I
couldn’t do without solitude, but I like some company too; as long
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