Pictured above: The Phoenix, High relief stone carving, Cathedral of St Stephen, Metz, France. Image by Michel Boucly from Pixabay
Ancient stories and traditions tell the story of the Phoenix, a great and solitary bird that lives for 500 years, or 1,000 years, or 12,999 years… nobody knows for sure. Intelligent and wise, the bird is majestic and awe-inspiring, with powerful wings, a noble bearing, and rich colorful plumage. The stories agree the bird ages over the years, becoming more and more worn and bedraggled, weak and decrepit, until at some point it inevitably approaches death. It is at this point the bird begins to gather aromatic herbs and twigs, fragrant tree bark, spices and incense, from which it builds a nest. Once complete, the dilapidated creature rests within it and begins to sing. The song is said to be so sonorous, so sweet, and so beguiling that once even the Greek sun god Apollo stopped his sun-chariot at midday to listen, delaying the passage of time. When the song ends the ancient body of the Phoenix ignites, and is quickly reduced to a pile of silvery ashes. Enigmatically its spirit remains, refined by the flames, and a young Phoenix arises, reborn from the ashes with all the wisdom and knowledge of the previous generations. As if stepping through a doorway, the cycle repeats – death and rebirth, destruction and regeneration, a constant cycle of renewal and reinvention.
I’m certainly not approaching death in a literal sense, not for several more decades I would hope, but like the Phoenix I’ve become a bit worn down over the past few years. Figuratively I’ve spent a lifetime quietly gathering my own aromatic materials, symbols of life experienced and knowledge gained. This past year has consisted of an ongoing fire of refining self examination and analysis.
Soon, like a Phoenix, I’ll step out of the silvery ashes, reinvent myself, and start anew.
And you didn’t have to hear me sing… trust me, no one needs to hear that.