Trust is Like

Trust is like a bird’s nest. It’s sometimes intricately woven and sometimes haphazardly assembled and even then, the bones of the construct are purpose built. There is something inherently trusting in a bird’s efforts to begin with (that somehow defy our own human logic) that this entirely open air atrium will weather a storm, even for a while. Bird-thinking can be so pragmatic in that way.

We humans on the other hand, are complex, less willing to flit off and build else where when the nest deteriorates beneath us. Birds on the other hand will, and they will, even if it’s not failing apart. There’s something to be said for having a ‘bird brain’ idea. They simply assess the situation as being time to move on and leave the nest. Birds make it so easy for themselves. They’re smart.

Is losing trust the same as losing hope that we can rebuild somewhere else? I don’t think so, but you know, we’re complex we humans, supposedly capable of higher thought processes. Creatures of the animal kingdom seem to have it all over us when it comes to practicalities. I suppose it’s survive or die. To them, the choice is easy.

It seems to me that the original questions, are they the same lead me to believe that they are not. Among human-kind, trust has a nefarious alter-ego called distrust. It’s not even that they are interchangeable, the two are completely separate and where one is capable of good, the other has a propensity to the dark arts and all manner of grey in between.

At its heart, trust is fragile, it requires us to handle it with care, with respect and some sense of dignity. Do we always? No, not always. And when we don’t handle it with care, can we expect we can just pick it up where we dropped it? No, because that’s the human complexity. We have to go back to the drawing board to relearn how to care, to earn the respect and reframe dignity as we understand it. Our complexities force us to wrestle with ourselves despite our not wanting too.

The alternative of course, is not to have wrestled, and to spend the rest of lives with a limp that one day appeared and we ourselves don’t know where it came from, just that we have it now and that, it would seem, is our lot. It doesn’t have to be way, not for always.

I spent time with Lucas yesterday, it had been raining before he arrived and he apologised for messy boots and mud and it really didn’t matter to me. There are elements of kindredness that I feel dispense with minor details like mud. Like conversation as an art form, it’s validity (and it is) as an art form but more importantly, its practise as an art form.

Lucas is my suburb’s in-resident artist, I admire him for pushing the boundaries of my perceptions, for giving me a fresh perspective. He was wearing quirky trousers which is always a dead give away that the conversation won’t be dull. And it wasn’t. There are things to do here in the ‘sham. I’m up for it.

There’s a Minor choir (Tilly and her mates) outside my window singing like there’s no tomorrow, the altos need a tuning fork to get in key but the harmony will come. I haven’t seen Blackey since Sunday but then the supreme choir might have something to do with that, I suspect he hates not being the centre of attention.

But then, we all need to be the centre of attention sometime, don’t we? Of course we do, not all the time, just every now and then to lift our spirits.