I woke up early. The sky is turning blue and the birds are talking. All behind the window, where the garden sleeps in it‘s winter mood. Where do dead birds go? Do they hide when they feel it coming? Are they eaten by other animals? Have you ever compared the number of birds around you with the dead ones lying on the streets?
Why is their death nearly invisible? The presence of dying with symbols, rituals and conversations lost it‘s space in our modern world. We are focused on the perfect shiny surface of ourselves with a good-news-only-attitude. No illness, no death. We became birds. Visible with our beautiful voice and feathers in spring, packed full of hard stuff locked inside.