Look, listen, study — the poetry of the birds
I am watching the birds,
and listening to their calls.
More so, I’m watching how they watch.
Normally, that’s something that I do with people —
watching how they look at things.
How do people see?
Driving across the state, back and forth,
I counted more than 50 raptors,
studying their type,
their size, their gaze.
What, indeed, are they looking at?
If you ever watch a more mature bird, you note how they swivel and study.
It’s not a furtive glance, it’s a piercing beam of focus.
A good reckoning for us, in the thinking —
“what are we looking at, what is our focus?”
That’s a life question — and a brand question.
I’ve been working with a person, a brand unto themselves, of the last couple of weeks, part planning, part strategy, part coaching — and this is the key question: “what are you looking at — your market, what is the focus of your message, to that market?”
Which comes out to,
the layering and mirroring of the story —
“what is your story,
what is your telling,
and who cares?”
For us, that’s about focus —
it’s the looking outwardly, externally –and the looking back, internally.
What’s given “out” and what’s given “back” in return.
Brand reflectivity — you reach forward, you reach back.
My mother, Lila, the ever-watchful, pointed out
this reading below,
which is a nice reconnection for me,
to hear this telling again.
In my examination of the craft,
I look for the patterning of my life,
in the work that I offer to others,
and how that resonation circulates,
in a kind of rippling —
one tiny waved story, to another.
Layer on layer on layer.
That, the quest for meaning.
Which is the heart of the work.
The Raven (excerpt)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
“The Raven (excerpt)” by Edgar Allan Poe. Public domain.
CROWD MIND | EXPERIENCE DESIGN | MEMORY STRATEGY