‘The bird of paradise alights only on the hand that is not trying to chain it down.’
(John Berry)

Americo Yabar, Andean pontiff of Quechua mysteries, told me that once, when he went to visit an aged ascetic in the solitude of the Cuzco heights, he found him amicable conversing with a royal condor majestically perched on his extended hand. When Americo approached, the condor watched his presence with a quick turn of the head, measured his steps with a glance, and, on not having been introduced to the intruding guest, he unfolded with proud gesture his incredibly long wings, flapped them haughtily and lifted himself slowly on to inaccessible heights. Mistrust had wretched intimacy.

Americo, in his keen sensitivity, could not bring himself to depart without having dispelled the misunderstanding with the king of birds, and he decided to stay as long as necessary in the abrupt wilderness. The condor showed himself again. He stayed on a far-off rock, and observed from there the two men. Seeing their evident closeness, he guessed their friendship and knew himself invited. He came closer day by day, landing each time at a shorter distance from the two waiting men. At last, in a smooth landing, he circled them both and came to stand on Americo’s shoulder. And there was happiness in three hearts.

This is the paradox of happiness (which is what the bird of paradise means): it will come down and rest only on the hand that is not trying to get hold of it. If it suspects treachery, it withdraws and disappears. And nobody can reach it in its kingdom of limitless space. Freedom will not be possessed by force. It does not obey orders nor yield to pressures. It is almost true to say that the more we seek it, the farther away it hides itself. Someone said it explicitly: ‘The search of happiness is one of the surest sources of unhappiness.’ (Eric Hoffer)

The paradox of love. In its keen desire for eternal union, it seeks to possess with final certainty…, and the bird of paradise escapes, shy and suspicious, from the iron embrace that chokes it. Possessiveness hurts freedom and endangers love. The condor has to feel free if he is to approach at all. Only if he knows himself free and untrammelled to take off at any moment, will he consent to stay on our hand. Intimacy can only be deserved, never imposed.

The anxiety for good results ruins the results. He who wants to save his soul, will lose it. He who wants to catch the condor, will never see its noble head.

I would love to see the condor of the Andes, admire it at close quarters, feel its weight upon my hand. That is why I want to let it know that I desire its presence, and that at the same time I totally respect its freedom. The rest is up to the bird.