On this final, frosty February morn, I wasn’t sure I had stamina enough to endure the day. For a short month, February can be so long. Teachers know.
I bundle up. I get in the car. I sigh. Could I manage to take half a day? Is it worth it? Probably not. A moment at a time, a moment at a time…
I drive. The empty fields seem sugarcoated with ice. I look for hawks. I am always looking for hawks. I don’t know why they lift my spirits so. They just do.
No hawks. No plump little goats in the goat pen by the stop sign, either. But something different in the glassy pond…
A great blue heron.
Symbol of self-determination, paragon of peace, harbinger of spring. Stoic, tall, unflinching. Stunning.
I stopped to take a picture of my beautiful heron but it’s not clear enough to post. I have to content myself with sharing this one instead; mine looked so like this.
Winter mornings dawn in gray monochrome before the sun bursts on the scene like a passionate artist with its gilded palette
Driving to work in this gray in-betweenness I note the doves always sitting on the power lines like heralds their plump bodies of soft sandy colors framed by the oyster sky
reminding me: look for the peace this day live as peacefully as possible this day
Then, in the strange way of life as I drive home weary and worn the golden part of the day nearly spent what should I see on other power lines?
Hawks big and breathtaking still as statues painted in shades of rust
They might remind some people of raw bloodthirstiness or predatory fierceness but their beauty fills me with such awe that it’s all I can do to keep my eyes on the road driving home
as I think about how my winter days are bookended by birds and how there’s something inherently sacred and profoundly satisfying in that.
(One of these days, when I can stop the car safely, I am going to get my own photos of my hawks…)
******* with thanks to Ruth at SOS-Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog for today’s inspiration to write: “You are invited to linger in your winter memories, reach deep and pick a golden moment to share.”
Awe descends like snowflakes in the silence finding asylum in the holy places where it perches plump and blue a quiescent electric spark sent to shock the soul from its stasis with a sudden gasp of winterclean air
Bluebird in the falling snow this afternoon, perched on the birdhouse my father-in-law made when my boys were small. They still call it “Pa-Pa’s bird church.” Those sparks are reflections of my Christmas tree lights in the window where I stood to capture this picture of awe.
In my various morning readings I encountered plagues divine deliverance fulfilled prophecy epiphany and wounded trees weeping until their blood-sap crystallizes into fragrant resin ancient gift of kings
and in one passage, this line: It is almost too beautiful to believe
my mind is replaying all these things when I catch sight of you there perched on a wire against the eggshell sky —an owl! No, not in daylight —a hawk ancient bird of kings winter sun glinting on your snow-banded wings
Hawks have a number of symbolic meanings, such as associations with Egypt, pharaohs, divine power, and salvation from slavery…I’d just been reading about these in Exodus. I’d also been reading of the Magi.
Hawks, birds of keen vision, are also said to represent the ability to see meaning in ordinary experiences —if one is willing to become more observant.
where I can watch you hopping along, pulling worms these warm winter days
unseasonable but I’m glad on your behalf, keeping my distance
hoping predators do the same, until you’re healed and take to the skies
lucky bird, forgive my bad Shakespearean pun: you’re Robin the Plucked
for salvation comes in the most peculiar ways, begging the question
of mortality, the taking and the giving in daily living
these two days I’ve watched your grounded red breast gleaming by the old arbor
—today, no sighting, inexplicable sadness despite the wonder
of your survival and the part I got to play. Little Robin, plucked
to live life anew, here’s to taking flight on your wings and my prayers.
Robin the Plucked right after his rescue from the grille of my sister-in-law’s SUV. She’d driven down I-95 a few days after Christmas to visit us. Robin had some feathers askew from his ordeal but his wings weren’t dragging; my husband and I put him in our fenced backyard in hopes that nature would take its course, that he’d soon be fit enough to fly again (and that he’d want to). There are no words to adequately describe him enmeshed in that grille, very much alive and calling out, or for the sight of him immediately trying to run once we got him loose and laid him on the grass. I was amazed and elated to see him eating in the backyard with other birds that came and went the next day. I didn’t go near him again, as when I attempted it, he ran. I refused to distress him any more (heaven knows being trapped on the front of a car going 70 mph is enough for a lifetime). I joke that he’s my last good deed of 2021; I kept an eye on him all yesterday. On this first day of 2022, he is gone.
I keep watching, however.
One final observation, regarding the symbolism of robins: They’re tied to a number of legends and mostly positive connotations like spring and good luck (begging another question: Who’s the actually the bringer of luck here, Robin the Plucked or me?). But the perspective of Mother Teresa moves me most at present, as quoted in No Greater Love (Benenate & Durepos) on the legend of the robin and Christ’s crown of thorns: “Each of us should try and be that bird – the little robin. When we see someone in pain, we must ask ourselves: ‘What can I do to give them comfort?’”
Happy New Year and new life to you, Robin, wherever you are.
Suppose you’re a special sort of Scarecrow with a Carved pumpkin head and a purple hat Adorned with pink roses, holding out your arms to Receive birds instead of repelling. Your reward for Embracing these winged messengers might be Canticles of cheer sung in your ear, Refrains of comfort and even celebration as October dies, again, reminding you, again, it’s only for a While.
Little seabird with only one foot Standing perfectly balanced at the shore You’re so calm, so still Despite wind-ruffled feathers
Standing perfectly balanced at the shore You’re a picture of grace Despite wind-ruffled feathers For you aren’t alone
You’re a picture of grace Safeguarded, transcending For you aren’t alone Flanked by faithful friends keeping watch
Safeguarded, transcending You’re so calm, so still Flanked by faithful friends keeping watch Little seabird, with only one foot.
As best I can determine, this is a laughing gull, already wearing winter plumage. I thought it was merely standing on one leg before realizing the other foot was gone. I have since learned that such sightings are common: many gulls lose feet and legs when they become entangled in fishing nets while hunting for food. What you cannot see in this close-up are two fellow gulls standing nearby, looking in different directions like bodyguards. I was struck by the poignant poise of this little shorebird and the proximity of the others. Gulls are symbols of adaptability, resourcefulness, community, survival, and strength. Maybe even uncommon grace.
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge
Just outside my window an unexpected song so loud and full of joy I want to sing along
An unexpected song bright spirit, wild and free I want to sing along until you fly from me
Bright spirit, wild and free winging your doxology until you flyfrom me I’m clinging to your singing Winging your doxology so loud and full of joy I’m clinging to your singing just outside my window.
The Carolina wren is a little bird with a big voice. I’ve been trying for days to get a photo of this regular visitor perched on our birdhouse church. I finally managed it this morning. As wrens are a common symbol for artists, musicians, and poets, a poem seemed called for. The pantoum form beckoned,with the rhythms of its moving, repeated lines (per new line, in stanzas of four:1234 2546 5768 7381).
The wren also represents rebirth, immortality, and protection. It is considered a guide through dark times.
Twenty-four hours ago I woke with the sun by the sea, rested and at peace with the world. I spent a few hours sitting at the ocean’s sandy altar beside my beloved sister-in-law, who’s like my own flesh and blood, speaking of the past, present, and future. Remembering loved ones lost. Cherishing new little ones, our children’s’ children. Hardly any other people were out and about; the beach seemed to be our own for these few sacred hours.
“Look! Dolphins!” my sister-in-law pointed. Out in the glimmering, watery distance, a distinctive leap…dolphins, navigators of the deep, ancient symbols of protection.
Just above the surface, gliding with astounding grace despite their unwieldy appearance, brown pelicans. Flocks of them. More than I’ve ever seen at one time before. Breaking their flight with dives and a mighty splash of white spray, catching fish and bobbing for a while in the waves.
Pelicans, a symbol for resourcefulness. And sacrifice. Legend has it that mother pelicans sacrifice themselves for their young, if need be. They wound themselves to feed their children with their own blood. They are social birds which hunt cooperatively—representing teamwork. Community.
Twenty-four hours ago, I sat breathing the same salt air as the pelicans, stood in the same sparkling waters as the dolphins.
Today I pack my bags, load my car, and return to school, masked. COVID rages on. Many unknowables lie ahead.
Yet I remain at peace. Diving, leaping, or gliding, I shall navigate as called for in the ebb and flow of moments. Children await, life awaits, time does not. The ocean remains. A reminder of constancy, of strength.
Here’s to the mighty plunge.
Low-flying pelicans. Tony Alter. CC-BY
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with thanks to Two Writing Teachers…strength and protection to all in this uplifting community of teacher-writers, seasoned navigators of life and story-sharing.
On the first day of summer the young lovebirds venture a rare morning stroll, having flown the coop for a bit of adventure in a lush green paradise all their own, the cocky young fellow squiring his best girl away from the prying eyes of her sisters, sunlight gleaming on his proud coppery coiffure, a pulse-quickening sight, iconic, idyllic, how could she refuse, indeed she cannot, as she bows her little red maiden’s coif, demurely casting her eyes downward, considering the grass beneath her feet, on the constant lookout for insects crawling by while preening her pristine white finery, mostly out of nervousness, mind, as she’s not accustomed to such freedoms, all this overwhelming dewiness, this newness, this green green greenness—ah, they suddenly realize I am watching, so they pretend they are supposed to be here, but of course I know better; I strain for snatches of their deliberately muffled discourse as they turn to walk in the opposite direction, like this is a perfectly ordinary occurrence versus an illicit escape…ba-gock, ba-gock, ba-goooock…we may not speak the same language, my free-ranging friends, but I shall leave your to your day in the sun, yes, here’s to this longest day of the year and savoring every bright moment, I cannot blame you at all for stealing away, with a little piece of my own heart…
My neighbor’s runaway rooster and hen, enjoying their summer morning stroll in the grass across the street from my driveway. My five-year-old granddaughter onomatopoetically refers to chickens as “the ba-gocks.”We seldom see them; their coop is tucked in a patch of woods. But we hear them “ba-gocking” throughout the day, and Rooster (we really should give him a name) never tires of crowing. He sometimes gets in a crowing match with my granddaughter, who “ur-ur-ur-ur-UUURRRRs” back at him. I hear him even now, as I write.
lit bits and pieces 