Monday November 14th 2011 Tim Candler
There are two members of
the Thrush Family where I live. The Wood Thrush and the Hermit
Thrush. Both belong to a genre of bird that prefer not to be seen.
Through most of the finer weather I heard often from down the slope a
particular sound that flummoxed me, which is an easy enough thing to do.
I did think about Thrushes, I
listened hard, dragging brain cells to attention in an attempt to
concentrate upon sound. And always the sound was gone from my mind
by the time I reached a technical device where bird songs are collected
in a neat and orderly manner.
It was an unusual
sound, primarily because of the range of noises, some of which were gentle
and pleasing And I felt horribly obliged to find this bird's
name on the roster. I'd sit on the front porch listening. In the
morning and then in the evening, I'd cock the head, nod wisely so I might
appear usefully engaged and knowledgeable.
Of his contributions to the way we live
and think, Aristotle's statement that "all science is either practical,
poetical or theoretical" is a prelude to categories of understanding that
still dominate. It's a necessary division, I guess, and at the same
time rather sad.