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karen blixen
October 2009 
The Story of The Stork
Posted on Aug 1st, 2009
by 
sass
sass
I was reminded recently of Karen Blixen's story of the Stork.
Referring to this story, she writes in a letter to her mother, "Just when one feels one is floundering in the deepest despair,--'fall into a ditch, get out again,'--is when one is perfecting the work of art of one's life. . . the greatest moments have been those when I have been able to glimpse the stork" (Letters from Africa, p. 49).
I've been wondering at what point do we get to perform a postmortem on the events of our past? When is the vantage (ever) right to know which turn was good, which bad? Are we indeed as Blixen suggests, stumbling our way, through the mud of life, in the dark, towards some sort of unity of meaning?
The power is in the impetus to get up, the drive to get out of the ditch, the desire to learn to walk on the path. Something I've been reading recently (Pema Chodron, perhaps) has been making much of the importance of this moment: when we notice "ah hell, I am in the ditch... again!" and thus we scramble up its muddy sides and plant our feet and return.
Referring to this story, she writes in a letter to her mother, "Just when one feels one is floundering in the deepest despair,--'fall into a ditch, get out again,'--is when one is perfecting the work of art of one's life. . . the greatest moments have been those when I have been able to glimpse the stork" (Letters from Africa, p. 49).
I've been wondering at what point do we get to perform a postmortem on the events of our past? When is the vantage (ever) right to know which turn was good, which bad? Are we indeed as Blixen suggests, stumbling our way, through the mud of life, in the dark, towards some sort of unity of meaning?
The power is in the impetus to get up, the drive to get out of the ditch, the desire to learn to walk on the path. Something I've been reading recently (Pema Chodron, perhaps) has been making much of the importance of this moment: when we notice "ah hell, I am in the ditch... again!" and thus we scramble up its muddy sides and plant our feet and return.
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