[Photo Journal] Gamle Bergen Museum

Myra here.

Every Tuesday, we share photographs from our recent or long-ago travels, or just everyday stuff that appealed to our mindful eye and sharp sensibilities as captured through fleeting images.

Gamle Bergen Museum, Norway

During our last full day in Norway, our host brought us to this gorgeous place, and we fed quite a number of birds.

Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.
― Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption: A Story from Different Seasons

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.” 
― Mary Oliver

“The reason birds can fly and we can’t is simply because they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings.” 
― J.M. Barrie, The Little White Bird

“In order to see birds it is necessary to become a part of the silence.” 
― Robert Lynd

“She decided to free herself, dance into the wind, create a new language. And birds fluttered around her, writing “yes” in the sky.” 
― Monique Duval

“You’ll think this is a bit silly, but I’m a bit–well, I have a thing about birds.”
“What, a phobia?”
“Sort of.”
“Well, that’s the common term for an irrational fear of birds.”
“What do they call a rational fear of birds, then?” 
― Neil Gaiman, Anansi Boys

“And if they thought her aimless, if they thought her a bit mad, let them. It meant they left her alone. Marya was not aimless, anyway. She was thinking.” 
― Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

“Every spring
I hear the thrush singing
in the glowing woods
he is only passing through.
His voice is deep,
then he lifts it until it seems
to fall from the sky.
I am thrilled.
I am grateful.
Then, by the end of morning,
he’s gone, nothing but silence
out of the tree
where he rested for a night.
And this I find acceptable.
Not enough is a poor life.
But too much is, well, too much.
Imagine Verdi or Mahler
every day, all day.
It would exhaust anyone.” 
― Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings