This time of year is often the most critical for the Barred Owls that have adopted me. Missy is the one who is losing up to 1/3 of her weight while nurturing her chicks. Be assured, I don’t know the chicks are in there yet, but I believe they are. I have evidence. Missy is dwelling in a kiva of sorts, the dark womb of the oak tree hollowed out by lightning and time, waiting for the best moments to come out into the light, to hoot and stretch her wings, and to go back inside, maybe eight feet below the entrance. Letting her chicks grow and become stronger in this protected, quiet space is her focus.
Mister is supposed to be guarding the tree and distracting predators. Later he’ll start bringing food to her, and to any hatched chicks. I’ve seen him bringing her food as part of their ritual, but lately, he seems to be content to watch from the pine branches (or from the woods where I can’t spot him), while she occasionally flies in and out. He’s focusing on guarding for the moment. I hear him in the night. I have to trust, let go, and try to limit my worries about predators (raccoons) and possible battles out in the woods (with crows). He knows what he’s doing. As soon as I let go, I’m usually rewarded with a good surprise.
This morning, Missy came out right when I was thinking about her. I talked to her for a few minutes, asked if she was okay, told her I loved her and that I knew Mister was around somewhere, and when I left her she popped back inside.
After lunch I left the patio door open so Charlie could run in and out. I heard Mister hooting, and Missy heard him too. She came back out as if eager to meet him and flew all the way out of my yard, to the first row of trees in the woods. They hooted back and forth. His hoot is lower than hers. I didn’t want to spook him so I avoided trying to find him, but I could hear that he was near my roof, to my right. I called Charlie in. Mister’s so shy. When he didn’t come to Missy, she flew back to perch in my large pine tree for a few minutes and then swooped back into the hollow. A long distance call is better than nothing! It’s always like a flash of golden light to watch her flying.
This time of year is also filled with darkness for me as I remember the death of my father on March 13 (2017) and my husband on March 18 (2019). I’ve replaced most of the pain with warm and funny memories, but I still miss them and my son Dylan. In my morning meditations I either mourn in the dark or I let myself float above it all, in the light. Both are necessary. It’s best to avoid ruminating, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t let the darkness nurture us.
My recent reading of Ladder to the Light by Steven Charleston, in which he describes the kivas of the Pueblo cultures at Mesa Verde, Chaco Canyon, and other Southwestern sites, has reminded me that these dark underground refuges can be places of beauty and wholeness, a womb or a place of origin, and a space for preparation and spiritual grounding, until we are ready to climb up to the light again.
I had the privilege to visit Chaco Canyon years ago and look down into its ancient kivas—its spiritual and community centers—for myself. Now that I think of Missy and her chicks as being in a kiva-like protected space, I feel calmer, knowing that all is well in the moment, and content to let the owls be owls. I can honor my own internal kiva, too.
Again, that’s not to say that I don’t worry about them. It’s only to say that when I do start to worry, I can remember to take the larger view. The world is a cycle. Light and dark. Birth, life, death, rebirth. Rising and falling. Despite pain, suffering, death, and tragedy, all will be well. I can trust in the darkness. I can look forward to the light.
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