My eyes are open. Wonder what I'll see today ...
The above was the last line in yesterday's post. What I saw straightaway after posting was a dead bird on my front steps. Seriously, can you make this stuff up? Nope, no way. Here is a pic of the bird. I added the photoshop effect called "diffuse glow" because the energy around this very tiny bird was so gentle. It was placed in the middle of the middle step, as if by loving hands, just for me. There were no ruffled feathers, broken bones, rips, tears or other evidence of foul play.
When I saw the bird, the first thing that came into my mind was the following poem. I have always loved this poem, ever since I was a tiny girl. It expresses perfectly the shamanic experience. I didn't know the words shamanic experience when I was 4 years old, but I really "got" the poem.
Halfway down the stairs
is a stair
where i sit.
there isn't any
other stair
quite like
it.
i'm not at the bottom,
i'm not at the top;
so this is the stair
where
I always
stop.
Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up
And it isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery,
It isn't in town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head.
It isn't really
Anywhere!
It's somewhere else
Instead!
Right after my encounter with the dead warbler, before I had a chance to take in what had just happened, I experienced a moment of elegant synchronicity: I ran into my friend Rod who knows all about this sort of thing since he spends his summers in a beautiful house in the mountains of W. Virginia above the Potomac River. He has had to figure out how to deal with many dead animals in and around his house, so he was the perfect person to see at that moment. He advised me to dig a hole and bury the bird in the garden. This sort of situation does not rattle him at all. It was clear that I could just drop the idea of freaking out, and instead adopt his no-nonsense approach.
With light-hearted respect, I dug a hole, scooped up the bird and gently buried it. It felt like I was planting it. The rest of my day unfolded without a lot of fanfare, fretting, or wringing of hands.
Life is such a trip! Today's cards and rune promise more revelations. I'll keep breathing.
13 comments:
I think the warbler's singing spirit will bring auspicious gifts to your garden.
Bless you for treating it with such respect.
Thanks, Jo. It felt just right - neither up nor down, not in the nursery, not in the town.
That poem resonates with the Tao of Goldilocks, a book I never wrote about moderation, about finding center.
I remember that poem! It's nice to read it again. And I'm glad you buried the bird so that it's spirit will stay close by.
When I worked downtown, often a bird would be lying on the ground almost as if asleep. They had a tendency to fly straight into a the glass windows and walls killing themselves instantly. (thank you for not posting the picture and linking it instead...I have seen enough of them to not want to see another).
I loved the poem.
ps~ Is that Jimi Hendrix on your header? :)
When my little pupils came for English today, we got to talking about sadness. Adeline`s rabbit had died and she could not stop thinking about him. Then another said, And my great-granny has died. I miss her.
So I said, it is good and right to be sad and to think about those who died. They will like that. And it fills your heart with what they were.
The dead little bird left his singing spirit at your doorstep, Reya. What a lovely gift.
All is good the way it is.
Dear Reya,
What a wonderful response to the charming bird who definitely needed to be planted.
I can't tell you what joy it brought angst ridden me in middle school to learn of the nitrogen cycle
totally comforting......
Ditto Shelley's Ode to Autumn
we return
we return.......
much love from NYC
Elizabeth, I'm plotting a journey to NYC. I'll email. We must put our heads together.
Janis - yes - I was not going to subject people to the image of the dead bird unless they were compelled to have a look. You're welcome.
Angela what a perfect story!
And Cyndy - how cool about the spirit of the bird. Wow.
YES that's Jimi in the banner, just after he kisses the sky at the very end of the concert at Woodstock.
its song stilled.
its heart stopped.
the little bird blooms on your doorstep.
it's feather petals glow in the light of your eyes.
steven
tonight i hope to dream of a warbler tree!
tweet, tweet
Oh what a beautiful picture of a perfect creature. To bury one of these is not only no-nonsense, but also a special act of love.
Planting a dead warbler, It might grow to be some sort of tree haven for- warblers- the ones that will be sent there to teach you to sing and to fly.
Today I was thinking that this warbler was the color of the green dust. Hence I have decided to call it a Pollen Warbler. Since Monday, I haven't heard the birdcall I hear once a year, just for a couple of weeks. No one has ever been able to identify the bird. Either it is a seasonal call of a bird that lives hear year round, or a bird that is migrating.
I would bet $2 million that the pollen warbler is the bird that sings the song.
Or ... maybe I should think about my friend and her cat. I might be wrong!
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