There needs to be a word for that moment
when a particular slant of light
hits a golden butterfly wing just so
as it flutters through the hollow.
The feathers. I am still finding at least one a day. Yesterday there were five. Two days ago, I found one at school, on the sidewalk between the parking lot and my classroom building. One day, before I’d left the house, Alicia brought me three she’d found. As I was pitching my tent at Nancy’s house last weekend, I found a feather. Right there. Last year, it lasted about a month or six weeks, a feather a day, beginning in late July.
We construct the meaning of our lives, I think. I like to keep lots of meanings in my pockets, and take them out to look at, like bright stones. All these feathers! It means that I am favored by birds. Or it’s a message not to fear the fledging, the flight I am about to take. Or it’s a reminder to rest in the grace of air and light. Or it means that bird-life in the hollow is healthy and vibrant. Or it means that there is an owl who chooses my poplar tree for her feasting. Perhaps it means that something in me is more observant in August, more apt to notice the tiny feathers in my path. I don’t need to choose one meaning, to sort out the spiritual from the scientific, to hold one above another as the “right” and proper meaning. I’ll hold them all, let all those pieces weave themselves into the narrative of my life. Life’s too full of possibilities to narrow it down to one thing.
1. The August slant of light
2. Tiger swallowtails
3. Wild geese in flight: You do not have to be good.
4. The mysterious promise of another day
5. Baby snuggle time
May we walk in Beauty!