The Spotting of a Hawk

to be a winged-one chasing beauty

I hear the hawk, though I do not see him. By the voice of the crows and honking of blue jays, I know exactly when he enters this land. All the murmurs become urgent messages to clans of winged ones who call out to me, “Sister, he is here.”

When the red-tailed creature makes his approach, he catches me off-guard. This is the way of angels and spirits. They want you to be vulnerably you. From behind, the sun is blocked, and I can feel the rush of air over my shoulders as he presents every detail of his body in front of me. He is so near I can count the tiny black spots on his white feathers. I inhale and try to release the wind within; but I can’t seem to let it go just yet. I hold. With every ounce of my being, I hold.

It is in this moment, that perhaps only lasted seconds, that all the birds quiet too. It seems even the trees have taken the time to pause, to say, “we are lucky,” and witness this might before us in awe. He lands on the oak, a tall sturdy branch, and the crows follow. This isn’t might as much as it is grace, I think. To be a feared killer, but to soar in truth. I honor this bird with my presence and call to him with my eyes. He is a master of precision. I am asking what it means to be precise.

And then, he flies away.

Last night, I led a group of women through poetry. “We are going to write a poem of goodness,” and I introduced the idea of nature as a mirror. Everything we ask, has already been provided. The answers are all around us. I’ve learned, one is better off not seeking solutions. It is far more joyful, to rather, ever so humbly, wish for the wisdom of questions. The magic is in asking and searching, in curiosity and boldness. There is grace in walking through the unknown.

I walk a dog and he sniffs out a chipmunk. He goes off pulling and I let him follow the trail. To a stone wall, he manages to force the little guy between rocks. Like windows, the spaces of grey allow for chipmunks to fit into tinier spaces than the dog’s nose. My friend at the end of this leash, dives right into one of those windows. To the right, another open space, is the chipmunk, wise, peeking out. The dog doesn’t seem to notice him but the little one is staring right at him, holding.

I yell, “Go chipmunk, go. He’s gonna get you,” but he doesn’t seem nervous. The dog never does find him. Like the scene of some cartoon, I leave laughing at the personality of creature cousins and how really, all of life is some animated comedy.

To encourage this mirroring connection, I ask my group members to match themselves with an animal of Celtic astrology. Each can find some resemblance of who they are, good or bad, while also recognizing the parts they are not. It isn’t about the animal or the likeness or being “all.” It’s about having the knowledge to filter through it. It’s about taking what resonates and leaving the rest. It’s about naming identity and narrative. It’s an exercise in owning essence.

I am the butterfly. I float and fly, come and go, landing upon the most beautiful flowers to drink the nectar. Though I may love where I am, feel nourished and held by plants, once the nectar is gone, there is no sustenance left. I must move on. Though as seasons cycle, so too do the flowers and my reasons to migrate, return.

No wonder they tell me to stay in one place, that they don’t understand. They do not feed on the flowers nor know the sweetness of the air when you are what directs shape through it. They are something more of a deer or a bear. Powerful medicines, but still, not the ones I need.

In France, my teacher and then host, both told me to be leery of the fluttering life. They cautioned against the frustration that comes from bouncing and hopping from one to the next, and never settling. I listened to their wisdom with respect. I honored their medicines. But as they called me a butterfly with judgement beneath their words, I wondered when being a butterfly became such an ugly thing.

My neighbor chases them with excitement. Her little six-year-old self, loves their colors and twirls and seeks to mimic them both in play and art. Every neighbor I have can’t wait to tell me when they see one. They know I’ll come running to find it, or rather ask them all these questions about what it looked like, what flower it found, and what it meant for them. Again, it isn’t about the animal or the likeness. It’s about naming identity and narrative. It’s an exercise in owning essence.

I own who I am, maybe fearlessly. I am constantly misunderstood or misperceived. It can be exhausting to exist in a place of winter when you crave, no, require, the floral becoming of spring. Blossoms are food and nurturance. Without them, I face starvation. When others are full, they do not grasp how another, in the same environment could be hungry.

I sit with a friend from high school I haven’t seen since, and we talk about how she always stood out, how she was the only Muslim most of our white Christian population would ever meet. “You’re brave,” I say, as I try to comfort the harm others did to her and acknowledge how during high school I felt as though I did belong, even if it isn’t the whole truth.

“But you were always different,” she said, offering proof in that I was the only one to ask questions of her identity, what it meant to cover her head, and even took the time to join her and her mom at the mosque. It isn’t spoken to be pretentious but to really comfort me in return in that, yes, I was different, I always have been. She was one of the few people that met me there, in this space of soul. I needed that reminding that I was meant for this path.

She calls me a butterfly with a smile, and there is hope and faith in her eyes. I thank her. I believe her.

I have since been looking for the hawk. Every morning, I hold my coffee close and pray for a visit. I want so badly to be granted another glimpse. I know it isn’t how it works and that I am to be vulnerably me. But still, it is powerful to dream.

Maybe it isn’t that I am in awe of such a creature as much as I see a mirror within him. Maybe it is that I too seek to take my place atop the oak, with the rest of the land pausing to say, “Ah, she is here.” I want to be home like that.

I don’t want to be feared as the hawk or feel untouchable. No. I much rather be the butterfly. Accessible with daily beauty. Little ones chasing and twirling after me in joy.

In a world where the seeds of the past are just now beginning to take root and reveal the budding fruit of our future, I am excited to see where this winged life takes me. I believe there is new beauty on its way. That it has already arrived. Within me there are shedding layers enacting petals in wind. From atop the oak, this time, as a butterfly, with words from my writing group, I conclude:

As I pull away to be a cloud, I realize, all the earth appears the same when you discover its blue and green are a blanket, and there is a mother there, to swaddle you in them.