Macro/micro
thinking about juxtaposition, always
I took this photo of a critically endangered Eltham copper butterfly last weekend on a walk, and this morning as I was choosing images for this fortnight’s piece I was reflecting on the fact that there’s a strong possibility this butterfly’s short life has now ended. In the midday sunlight its little wings, each about the size of my thumbnail, were iridescent, flashing copper and indigo as the light reverberated off their soft surfaces.
My mind has been spiralling lately between the micro to the macro. I’m reading about calamaties around the world in the news, but in the back of my mind there is the persistent need to cut my fingernails. The feeling of their length being all of a sudden too long clouds my concentration. My youngest daughter has an infected ear piercing, her ear lobe puffy and throbbing. I tend to it, caring for this tiny ear, one of billions of human ears on this planet, whilst ten million satellites are imagined into orbit. A tiny butterfly lands on a leaf in front of me and I look at it with my daughters, while children far away brandish guns. And the days go on like this: macro, micro / micro, macro.
It’s hard to remain engaged in a global world, and I wonder if this is an important thing to think about (because I do, often). How to walk the line between overwhelm and helplessness, privilege and action, between too much information or not enough, between what is real and what isn’t? This article talking about how to have brave conversations that value openness and nuance, says:
Our brains are not built to absorb this volume of distress. The result is cognitive overload: a strained system that struggles with complexity and defaults to certainty.
I have little power over whether or not our night sky is saturated by artificial light, though it pains me to think about the environmental impacts that would follow. I do, however, have the ability to tend to small, nearby places: the nature reserve, my craft, a child’s ear, my mind. I can foster and focus my attention. This doesn’t feel like enough - it almost certainly isn’t enough - but it is something.
In my garden over days and weeks the water level in a blue bird bath I found on hard rubbish fills and lowers, fills and lowers. Noisy miners have been bathing and splashing in it, bullying other birds away. Leaves have fallen in it, the water steeping and darkening with eucalyptus tannin. Small insects dart across its surface. A skink sits motionless on its edge, its pulsating neck the only sign of life. I walk past the bird bath multiple times a day, pausing to look at it every now and again. Trying to remain tender-hearted and open-minded. Trying to remain alert and thoughtful.
This is where I will return to when the micro is required, for now.
Other things…
I found this article about AI and fiction writing interesting/confounding.
I quite like the look of this campfire meal to try some time over the cooler months. Whether I will or not, is anyone’s guess.
This fortnight I have a week’s leave from my job and once I finish two librarianship assessment tasks that are due, we will be spending some time out of town. I’ll be noticing the seasonal changes in the landscapes we visit just once or twice a year; the way the light bends, the moss gathers and the water flows.
What do you have the ability to pay attention to in the coming weeks? What will you learn about? What will you tend to?
And that’s quite enough for now.
Until next time, travel light x
In case you missed it:
About the author
Lucinda Bain is a contemporary Australian writer based in Melbourne, whose work explores motherhood, place, memory, suburban life and the natural world. Lucinda is mother to three daughters – a role that deeply informs much of her writing. She is currently studying librarianship at the master’s level, which complements her identity as a reader, writer, researcher and observer of how stories locate themselves in both home and landscape.
Such a lovely way to describe our current moment!