Was I to take this to mean that dragons not only walked between many worlds but were weavers and perceived the world in the embrace of the warp and weft of their combined spirits? They took it to heart about walking in another’s shoes, or pads, or webbed feet.
My
mentor found this to be the most pertinent point. I know this because I had been following her
from one end of the bulwarks to another but she rarely turned to see if I was
near when she spoke. Thankfully, the walk from end to end was not that long.
Along the way, the skies were a distraction, as were the reeds and the ripples.
She turned when I was captivated by another favorite marsh movement and told
me, “Those that become dragons may never know it is
their destiny to be one until the change happens. There might be clues. But
there might be misleading indicators as well.”
When my
mentor left, she made a delicate bow toward the bulwarks and then toward me. I
bowed back as if I were touching my toes.
Of course, I was kidding but she was not. I think. I can never tell with
her. Before I turned to leave I wanted to give my thanks to the river for the
rare time I spent with my mentor there. But I did not bow. I took a deep breath
and felt I was pulling in all I saw through my eyes into my body. My wetlands are my home. To actually leave there often feels wrong. I am attached to the everythingness of it.
~ ~ ~
Eagles have a commanding presence
and carry a sense of making the possible present. I feel as if eagles know when
dreams are moving toward ripeness and ready to pluck into reality. I fold that
meaning into my being. Like many birds, they are also messengers. And like many
messages, not easily understood. When I see them my heart feels fuller; my
dreams vibrate and resonate. Even the sky seems bigger with an eagle flying in it.
These
eagles know me no matter how I dress for the weather. I’m the riverside lady. ‘She
watches for the osprey, and takes great pleasure in the river whether there is
water or only a thin silver stream tracing through the mud.’ My attention is always eagle until mid-March.
Then, my first look is to the cell tower to see if my osprey have returned.
Followed by looking to the eagles nesting area. I would be dishonest if I
didn’t share my guilt, for the eagles are residents and they are here all year
long. The osprey
remind me of what it was like when my brother Jerry would visit. My mother made
such a fuss. ‘Oh, Jerry’s coming. I have to cook this. He loves this.” Oy, oy, oy.
My mother. I loved the way she loved that Jerry was coming to visit. Do you think the eagles are seeing my fuss
over the osprey and making fun?
~ ~ ~
The wavy lines in our brains tell
me that water and waves, wind and more, have been the architect of our
heart/mind. No computer experts really know what is going on behind the screen.
Something is making connections and there’s a density of direction that makes
it all work. Since many teachers take on the form of birds, I have to wonder if
their calls and songs are for their joy and communications but also something
we know without knowing. Perhaps our teachers riding the
thermals in the skies is a parallel and model calling out to the waves in our
brains. Are their morning songs also a lesson or songs once familiar that
we no longer know? Is it possible that our relationship with their songs is
like when I sat at my grandparents feet nodding my head because somehow, even
though I am not fluent in Yiddish now, I once understood them? Could it be we
were all fluent in bird songs? The threat to our planet and all we need to
survive is many layered. One layer is our noise and being so wrapped up in the
world of humans to the exclusion of all others’ use of sound. I sometimes
wonder if rising early is how older people reconnect with the world of birds
and through them to the many rhythms that feed us which had been blocked out by
the hubbub of our lives. Hubbub, a confused noise, makes it hard to hear the
songs.
The songs
of early dawn and the morning flights of migrating birds speak to me. Their
songs are hello and goodbye braided to call and charm, beckon and simply listen
to. I will stand with you in the morning song of hello and goodbye. There are
times the thoughtlessness of friends or family’s neglect can leave a hole. There
are days when we are too much with the world of people and need the peace of
nature. The morning songs come like balm and they come, where I live, every
morning. They fly into the air with their songs . Each day sung into
possibility. All emptiness is gone. When I listen, I feel a sense of fullness. Many
uncomfortable memories are dissolved in the dawn.
There are
many reason these times of dawn and dusk are so crucial in our lives and in the
lore some have passed down. They are openings to the worlds we may not fully
know when awake, but the connection through the songs of birds brings us into a
sweet chorus of being, even though we know as we listen, they are fleeting.
from
the old woman and morning songs ~ 12 in bird dreams, riding hope,
- sometimes a fable, weaving our
connections to birds, meandering rivers
and dragons, fermenting miso and consciousness,
wetlands,
our extended kin and ancestors, our mentors, and Wisdom.
Inspired
by actual events and a sense of place and belonging by a woman who addresses
the reader on behalf of the earth
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