Simurgh

… the Simurgh, a magnificent bird that originates from Persian mythology. The Simurgh is not only a beautiful and powerful creature, but also a symbol of wisdom, protection, and immortality.

[https://www.eavartravel.com/blog/2023/11/3/140727/simurgh/]

I was thinking about the legend, or myth, of the phoenix for reasons I’ll explain soon enough. When I began to look for how that impossible bird came to be, I discovered there were others that were not unlike it in nature and decided to see what I had been missing, what I needed to learn. In all likelihood, I will never come to an understanding of what the simurgh [simorgh] is, of all its aspects, but I realize it is an idea that I need. Look at what else the previously cited article says about it:

The Simurgh has many supernatural abilities that make it a formidable creature. The Simurgh can fly faster than any other bird, and can travel between different realms of existence. The Simurgh can also manipulate the elements of nature, such as fire, water, wind, and earth. The Simurgh is omniscient, meaning that it knows everything that has happened or will happen in the past, present, and future. The Simurgh is also compassionate and generous, as it often helps those who are in need or seek its guidance.

This is an old motif, from the 10th century BCE, so there’s a reason it is still with us. The question is, what is the nature of its relevance even in our times? Even though it has a very uncertain form? Is it a bird itself, as some stories portray it? Is it a group of birds - thirty, to be precise, since si- meant thirty in ancient Persian? Is it the destination of that flock which was told to fly in search of something that would make them strong and whole? Something like a deity or not a being but a place their souls would be healed?

I so need that healing now, but we all do, which is why I’m thinking long and hard about the simurgh, that instead of one bird might be thirty, a whole Conference of Birds as the Persian poet Attar of Nishapur described them in the 12th century. Birds who, according to some versions of the story that is a poem, were ordered to cross seven valleys in order to reach the place, or being, that would render them stronger and more beautiful.

The problem for me is that some birds, or people, will venture out to take on the challenges and their flight will make them stronger, more ethical, more able to construct a world we can all inhabit safely. Other birds are deaf, some are even psychopaths. These are the ones whose cruel nature rivals that of some humans. They care nothing about the others in the flock and the worst of them take pleasure in driving their sharp beaks into defenseless fledglings to drink their blood. Their purpose in life is to maim and eliminate, to make the real world go away, ripping the guts out of anything that doesn’t do evil.

This is dystopian thinking, the meanness so strong and vile that those who aren’t able to go along with the gut-ripping, shredding, bombing, and utter massacre of life and breath are most often caught off guard. They are the stuff of nightmares that swoop in on dark wings and …

Wake up! I tell myself, because nobody wants to hear these things. After all, this isn’t Orwell’s 1984. It’s also not a chapter out of Sinclair Lewis’ It Can’t Happen Here. It’s 2026 and we’ve got things to do, a lot of things. We’ve got places to fly, some located rather close to here, others light years away. Let’s focus on what we have before us, and if we need to soar above seven valleys - quest, love, knowledge, detachment, unity, wonderment, poverty and annihilation - let’s do it. If these terms aren’t the ones you would have chosen, that’s fine; they’re just ones that appear in one translation. I’m more interested in the fact that there are segments to the journey and that we ought not be killing one another along the way. If this sounds like Sufism, please know that I’m not very good at religions and have no idea what that’s all about.

Here’s all I’d like to do: just ask you what makes you feel content and how you can feel that way, what makes contentment possible. Did you ever feel that way? Can you describe it? And what are you willing to do to reach that point? Did you have to work hard? Meet the right people? Did you have to earn it or were you born with it? Did you have to buy it? At what price? Did you have to sacrifice anything? Where were you when you felt you had everything you needed? How did you realize what it was that you actually needed? Were you ever greedy? If so, why?

Looking over everything I’ve just written, I’m feeling discouraged. All I wanted to do was to think about a mythological animal, a bird similar to a phoenix, a symbol of rebirth that is nothing more than a representation of hope, of faith in the ability to return to our life instead of flying off into nothingness. However, does anybody really believe in immortality? I mean, really, really believe? And in today’s world, is hope possible? Let’s see if it is:

First, we can make greed illegal. Make meanness a crime. Eliminate every last weapon that can be used in war, from the smallest to the most lethal. Declare murder a crime - because it’s allowed nowadays, every day, and nobody cares to stop it. Maybe we can make money illegal. We can promote laughing and full stomachs and medicine and research to create medicines we still don’t have. Maybe we can make learning a good thing and reading poetry the law of the land. What if we take huge erasers and get rid of national borders while making sure the word invasion is also erased from the vocabulary of every language in the world. Oh, and consider making things, pretty ones, instead of blowing up mountains and everything that gets in the way? What if we decide to put things back together instead of blasting them to smithereens?

What if we all vote for peace and dictate exactly how that can be achieved? What if we flap our wings and fly off into the warmest, most beautiful sunset possible? What if I simply stop writing silly things that are impossible and stories that mean nothing?

What if we just burn hope - that once-beautiful thing with feathers, Emily - and die? Words no longer wasted. Pure silence.