On this gloomy October day, in which the inner weather was nearly as oppressive as the outer weather, I was called to fast, to abandon all pretense of thriving in the status quo, to be still, to allow the accumulated clouds to pass in their time not mine, and to listen. Big shifts, far too subtle and deep for words (or even conventional thought) were asserting themselves from the deep, from the vibrational level of being, and kicking loose all manner of dust and distortion in the denser strata of my field.
There was no escape; no chasing remedy. There was only letting it be, feeling what must be felt, blessing it with presence if not with praise.
In the course of the day, as my own body and psyche squirmed in vague indignant objection to the slow moving front of malaise, I could hear a bird scrabbling at the chimney top and then, from time to time, fluttering inside the stove pipe. Apparently, I hadn’t been the only one seeking poorly-suited shelter.
After hearing him struggle inside the pipe several times, I decided in a cold moment to try out the wood-stove for the first time this year, to discourage his pursuits. I opened the stove and there was my blue bird of happiness, alive among the ashes, perched on a log; He flew out and into the sun-room, and I managed to usher him out the door.
By the time I got back to the living room, I could hear birds up the chimney again. Noting that I needed to get some kind of screen cap up there, I typed an email about it to my friend who owns the house, and then I set about to do a test run on the stove, to discourage further nesting impulses.
Again, I opened the stove and there was the same bird (if not his companion) dozing on the same log, either sleeping off oxygen deprivation or a slight concussion from hitting the gla
ss door once before just exiting the house. I had to do a bit more chasing the second time, but out the deck door s/he eventually went.
So …I lit a fire.
Isn’t it good?
And then I found an email reply from my friend, who had consulted her oracle upon reading my first report. And no surprise in the wisdom offered up:
“She will be renewed, as will you.
Old ways must pass.
A new dynamic must come into being.”
This had been my intuition about the day, through all objections of my body and psyche. And I’d given over control. But I hadn’t really thought about the significance of the bird, except to notice how his beautiful blue color seemed to pierce the dim batting around my heart and, for a fleeting moment, touch it like velvet.
I had just quipped to another friend: Divine Beauty isn’t always pretty.
But of course, that’s in the eye of the beholder.
There really is no such thing as an ugly duckling, only a swan on a detour.
No matter how I felt, I had just been shown a bird flying out of ashes.
All I had to do was open the door!
And in case I didn’t get it, it happened again.
Just like us, perhaps song-birds like to return to their dark place a few times before they choose to live somewhere else.