Tuesday, March 14, 2023

the old woman and morning songs, part 3 of 4

 


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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