After a couple of hours flicking between Twitter and my blog, my eyes were tired. I turned away from the laptop screen and looked out the window. There was a whole other world out there.
It had been drizzling all morning, but now it had started to rain. A kookaburra was perched stoically on the overhead cable, drops of water occasionally falling off the end of his beak. Drip ... drip ... drip.
A very wet blue-faced honeyeater flew up to him making accusative noises. Kooka merely fluffed his feathers. Then three noisy miners flapped around him threateningly, asking him to "please leave the area". Kooka didn't even register their presence. He just maintained his steadfast stare at the ground.
Beyond the drama of the birds, yet another world existed. In the distance, a plane from Sydney containing many people and many stories had begun its descent to Brisbane Airport. Framed by my window like a painting, this scene appeared on the surface to be an undivided whole. Yet there was layer upon layer of reality in it, each seemingly unconnected. A million different stories were looking back at me.
In one part of the scene, an ant had suddenly altered its direction for a reason known only to the ant. Inside the plane, a flight attendant was looking forward to the end of her shift.
And inside each individual creature, a myriad of events was also taking place. The blood flowing through our bodies; the endless chatter of our brains; an itchy toe. Yet all these things go towards making a whole, apparently unified, person.
Is that scene through my window also many parts of one whole in some strange as yet undiscovered way? Trying to answer that question through thought will lead merely to surmise, but it's an interesting thought to ponder all the same.