An Unlikely Messenger

Our first home was situated in a village where the only remaining business was a pub, so we were able to enjoy the luxury of living within easy walking distance of a fun evening out.  On Saturday nights, there was a magician who worked the U-shaped bar, gracefully dodging the bartender as he performed sleight of hand for the patrons.  He would clear a space between the drinks and the snacks and the ashtrays where he placed a thick cloth to serve as his miniature stage for the audience seated in front of him.  It was gloriously entertaining and mesmerizing to watch his craft literally right before one’s eyes and be completely taken in.  One night after a particularly unbelievable trick, I incredulously asked the woman next to me “How does he do that?”.  She took a short drag on her cigarette and answered simply in her barfly rasp “Well, it’s magic.” as she shifted her eyes to mine through the smoke.  I think about those carefree nights sometimes, and her answer, and of course she was right.  In our harsh world, who wouldn’t want to believe that there is magic out there?

Not long before Ken was admitted to the hospital for the last time, he was driving home along a local road and spied what he thought was a snowy owl. He and I were casual birdwatchers for many years and the thought of seeing something new for our “Life List” was always exciting.  These owls are spotted occasionally in our region in the winter, but neither of us had ever seen one personally, so he continued the drive home, calling along the way to tell me to grab a pair of binoculars, and we raced back to the spot of the sighting.  The bird had flown deeper into a small wooded area which had recently been selectively logged, but we could get a fairly clear picture of it through the binocs, and quickly realized that it was not an owl at all, but probably a leucistic red-tailed hawk.  Leucism is a partial loss of pigmentation in animals; when found in birds, it results in a varying degree of white in feathers which are normally colored.  It is different from albinism, which is a complete lack of pigmentation in all parts.  Even though it was not the rare snowy owl, it was still thrilling to see a bird with such unusual plumage.  One estimate is that there are 200 of these hawks out of 2 million in North America, so we felt fortunate to see one down the road from our home.

A precious few weeks later, Ken passed away in our living room, on one of those cold clear winter mornings when the brilliance of the sky and the brightness of the sun give an illusion of spring.  Our kids and I sat with him for a few hours after he died, but by early afternoon the funeral director had removed his body and we were left in the chasm his absence would create in our lives.  Someone built a fire in the fireplace but soon we all retreated to our own little corners, a family of introverts needing some quiet after the intensity of the previous month.  I was standing at the back door for a time, gazing at the familiar scene outside and as the late afternoon sun lit up the hill behind our home, I spied the rare bird.  Four miles from where Ken and I had seen it the previous month, sitting in a tree along the edge of the neighbor’s field, the white feathers glowing in the sun.  And I felt a bit silly to think this, but it seemed too odd to be mere coincidence and I wondered if the bird had come by to let me know that things were going to be okay.

While I have thought about that hawk from time to time since then, I hadn’t seen it anywhere.  A few days before the anniversary of Ken’s death, I am driving through the area of the original sighting, wondering how Ken ever spotted any bird along the winding road.  Certainly the white feathers and large size make the raptor more visible than most, but tree branches and other debris block the view and the road’s twisty geometry doesn’t lend itself to clear vistas either.  As I came around one of those curves, out of curiosity I looked up into the woods and there it was, that unusual specimen, sitting in the same stand of trees where we first viewed it 13 months ago.  I couldn’t believe it.  Did my thoughts conjure it up?  What were the chances of it being right in front me when it was on my mind?

I related this story to my kids, as they too feel something of a kinship to this unique creature.  Two days later they are visiting so we can commemorate the sad anniversary together and they are so excited about the bird, they want to go to the spot to see it for themselves.  But we are busy most of the afternoon with the activities of the day and I do not want them to be disappointed by an unpredictable wild thing so I have not been promoting the idea. The day is coming to a close when we finally decide to try, so I set aside my skepticism and volunteer to drive.

My son-in-law offers to stay behind with the dogs, so the four of us pile in the car and head out in the last half hour before the sun dips behind the mountain.  We drive by with the stand of trees on our left, all of their eyes scanning the woods.  No sign of the hawk.  I drive up to the next intersection and turn around for a second try, this time heading in the direction in which first Ken and then I a year later spotted her/him.  Nothing.  We are discouraged but not ready to give up.  Instead of following the main road back, I turn the car into the neighborhood adjacent to these woods, which was once forested itself and retains many mature trees.

Even with houses tucked densely into the forest, it still looks like desirable avian hunting grounds to me, so presumably the bird could be anywhere around here.  We once knew several families who lived nearby and as we drive, there is talk about them and the activities we did together.  But we spy only squirrels and deer foraging in the fading daylight, and as the sun has dipped below the hillcrest, the yards are now in shade.  We turn up a dead end street, just to see if there is more of a vantage point from a bit higher up.  There is not, and we are out of options.  We head back to the main road to return home, a bit disenchanted even after we have laughed and shared a few memories.  I come around the curve exiting the neighborhood and am shocked when I glance up and there s/he is.  Right next to the road, at a location with an ample shoulder where I pull off and park.  The hawk sits right above us, glowing in the last rays of sun which is not yet gone along this one section of road.  And I open the passenger side windows and the sunroof so the four of us can gaze at this beautiful creature, this outsider of a bird for whom life must be extra difficult, not blessed with the normal camouflage of their kind.  We can’t believe it.  Our familiar is here again, right in front of these four grieving souls.  After a few moments of our silent gawking the bird flies off and we head home for real now, incredibly grateful to have witnessed this magic together.     

So do I call this coincidental and forget about it?  Or has the universe been reaching out in a clumsy way, unable to send a more direct and clear message?  Whatever you call your higher power, I think there is God in that.  I believe there is something after our life on Earth - what it looks like, I won’t presume to guess.  But the inherent problem now is that Ken is there and not here with me.  I talk to him, hoping he can hear me, but can’t sustain one way conversation for very long.  So many of my hours and days and nights through the winter were bleak and lonely, and what a relief it is to feel some respite, to sense that there is something more than we can see or understand.  If I am offered some hope, an acknowledgement that my pain is recognized and can be eased, well, why not?  I can choose to believe in this magic.