This is not an owl story
Who sees what you can't when you can't?
a barred owl peeking to see me in the woods behind our house this past fall. 2022
Catching ourselves in the slow-moving habits of winter can bring more than a few incriminating voices to our minds. “I should’ve done more,” “I wanted to get that done,” and “my closet would horrify Marie Kondo.”
Winter is like walking in sludge; the evidence we’ve been doing it isn’t mud but clutter. Some people are clutter blind while others feel disorganization dents their sense of self. If you’re the latter, we are alike.
Between the rounds of colds and cases of flu passing through our families and the guesswork of dressing for weather conditions, winter life can be illustrated by that pile of clothing many of us have thrown over a piece of home exercise equipment. Life becomes a series of “we’ll get to it” aspirations.
Be gentle with yourself.
Fellow clutter haters, let me say we often set our goals in the vitality of our highest moments. It’s dangerous to plan how we’ll live in winter while we’re in the zenith of summer’s brilliance. Summer speed rarely maps onto the slow moments of winter. July plans can’t be the standard for cloud-covered February days. They simply can’t. Embrace this truth, and you’ll suffer less.
Gretchen Rubin advises us to have a to-do list and a ta-da list. A ta-da list lists things we did on a given day. For example, the pace of winter might mean our Ta-Da list includes “Got out of bed and made breakfast.” Celebrating the simplest of life’s acts can create the momentum we’ve been waiting for.
Donate a few things that no longer serve you or organize a drawer in the fridge, and these small, simple acts can make you feel like you can change careers now.
None of this is why I’ve called you here today. I have a nature parable for you.
This is not an owl story.
Camping in the backcountry just off a trail has given me some of my most memorable experiences in nature. Being away from campsites and people invites a unity with nature that’s unavailable any other way. A woodpecker’s sawdust from looking for food fell onto my tent’s roof. I awoke in the night without a rainfly on the tent to an array of stars unobscured by the lights of any town. Who knew there were that many stars? I’ve heard a bear rumble past me in the early dawn hours. Thankful she kept moving. I’ve heard a coyote yip and cry in frustration at three in the morning when she found the food she’d come for in my bag tied too high in a tree to get to.
My first night on the Appalachian trail was memorable for the lack of sleep I got. After an intense day of lumbering with an overstuffed and poorly edited pack (newbies tend to bring too much), I was tired. But unfortunately, instead of getting the sleep my body desperately needed, I would be harassed by some varmint trying to chew its way into my tent. It was relentless.
The first sound I heard the following day a few feet from camp was the unmistakable clear cry of a redtail hawk. So powerful this call is often wrongly the sound effect given to soaring bald eagles in film and television. It couldn’t have been a hundred feet from my setup. My first thought was, “where were you last night, pal!?” I needed air support, and this guy was a no-show.
Fast forward to ten miles of hiking and a new site the following night. I slept undisturbed and felt like I had melted into the stillness of the woods. I could’ve been a felled oak passing its well-lived life into the lush, damp mossy forest floor. I'd be shocked if a five-star resort offered better sleep.
A barred owl was the first sound that rose above the distant dawn chorus of songbirds. The “who cooks for you?” call was very close, fifty feet from my setup.
The difference in mornings was an incredible contrast. I was profoundly well-rested and awakened by a voice that flies at night. It offers the air support I lacked with the hawk. There were no varmints in the night because they likely knew better. If anything moved, it became an owl dinner.
As I walked from camp, I thought we need owl friends. Those who can see what we can’t when we can’t. Those alert to what we aren’t. Those awake to the truth we are sleeping through or from our present rhythms and schedule find ourselves asleep. Their perspective protects us. Friends whose awakeness and aliveness allow us to enter the rest we need fully. Their clear-eyed vision in the darkness and brilliant hearing of all that moves to invade our peace becomes soul protection.
The owls likely won’t be people.
I’m not necessarily talking about people. I don’t want to set you up for disappointment. Modern friendship is unfulfilling in nearly every way. I once thought it could be redeemed, but I’m entirely convinced otherwise. Surviving the loneliness of wilderness has helped me survive modern-day friendships. The withdrawals of people are the most routine and reliable part of them. This might’ve crushed me if not for being miles in the wilderness and realizing I’m ok, even thriving.
Owls may take the shape of writing from sage advisors whose voices and wisdom we remember. An owl can even be our routine practice. Thich Nhat Hahn has said anything that protects our practice is our community.
Look for voices that can become your solid stable of owls. The varmints of the world are persistent, but your rest is needed.
Be well, Feral Souls.