barred owl – The Light Behind the Story

It was not yet 7:00am in the morning, I had reached over to grasp the teapot, about to fill it with water to brew a cup of chaga, when I looked out my kitchen window and saw the owl staring back at me. It was perched on the lowest branch of the hemlock just beyond the far side of the pool, a couple of yards away. An “Oh my god,” or something close to it, escaped from my mouth is I put down the teapot and grabbed the phone.

My morning visitor, a barred owl on a hemlock

There was no need to panic. The owl had no plans elsewhere, in fact, it was quite content to spend its morning in the copse of hemlocks, peering into my ~~soul~~ window, and occasionally onto the forest floor for a sign of breakfast. Or would that be dinnertime of an owl?

The barred owl casually hunting for a meal

One thing was certain, I had not been expecting a visitor of night to show up at my backdoor that morning. And, for a bird known for its eerie call that sounds an awful lot like “Whooo Looks for Yooouu?” my visitor never made a peep.

The barred owl was silent during the entire visit

For more than an hour, the owl hunted silently the small woods in my backyard, mostly staying in the same hemlock, and quite frequently peering into my ~~soul~~ window directly ~~through~~ into my eyes.

It was a bit unsettling, but felt like a gift

If you have never stared eye-to-eye with an owl, perhaps you will get a feel for what it’s like through these photos. There is a reason why owls have, throughout time, been associated with darkness and magic. A reason why they are associated with wisdom, secrets, and symbols of what is hidden and perhaps needs to be revealed. Every bit of lore associated with owls becomes unsettlingly clear when you stare eye-to-eye with one.

Since my morning visitor (who appeared again at the end of the afternoon), was a barred owl, I found myself starring into eyes blacker than night set inside a tawny white face with a yellow beak. It’s rather like looking into a sky devoid of stars (planets, satellites, and moons), but that doesn’t exist. Hence the feeling of otherworldliness. It is no wonder owls are associated with magic and mystery.

When I looked at my visitor, I saw my dear and departed friend and mentor Sue with her cloak of owl feathers, I saw my maternal grandmother, and I saw Athena encased inside one magnificent form that more than once I felt like hugging.

My visitor definitely had a huggable quality

Let’s face it, owls are rather adorable, albeit imposing figures. I have a tendency to want to hug pretty much any form of wildlife I see and it takes a fair bit of willpower not to. Instead, I settle with filming and taking photos, when possible. Yesterday brought two opportunities to do so, as the owl appeared again late in the afternoon, just after I had settled onto the sofa to work on my manuscript. It was nearly 4:40pm, and after typing a few lines in book three of the Warriors of Light series, in which perhaps not coincidentally, the barred owl makes a reappearance as an important messenger, my friend reappeared. This time, outside my living room window. Like déjà vu I looked out the window to find the same barred owl starring directly into my soul. Forget the crossout, I was now convinced.

The barred owl in my apple tree this past fall

I think perhaps I will miss the old apple tree more than anything else. This first friend whose woody trunk I clung too in times of sorrow and joy. If I move before spring, I will miss her flush of blooms spread over the patio like a canopy of tattered lace. That play with the sun before her petals drop like spring snow. Ephemeral wings blown away with a wind that brings the budding orbs of summer. I will miss her sweet apples, stunted by shade and the organic burrowing of worms.

Sitting in an old farmhouse, someday I will recall the gathering. Full bowls brought into the kitchen to be parsed and boiled with cinnamon. Browned pulp squeezed into the food mill then left to cool. I will think of the small hands before they waved goodbye to childhood, scooping the sauce of her bounty into eager mouths. No need for sugar. What a gift to be fed by her love.

And I will miss the birds she held through birth, and those that searched her giving body for substance through the seasons. Those downy heads of woodpeckers drumming winter’s rhythm. The inverted gaze of the nuthatch seeking the downward hunt. Robins nesting in her leafy boughs just beyond the reach of the cat. Trusting. I cannot forget the orioles who always chose her showiest days to flash their orange and black bodies like forbidden royalty before her petals lay her bare each summer. But then, I shall recall the barred owl peaking through the gray day of my window from her steady arm to tell me , “It is time go and build your dreams.”

Yes, I believe it is the one who bore this life with me here, who I will miss the most when I leave.