Bowing Down to Broken Wing

There is a large track of land close to my home, a forest with a couple of creeks running through it. This is a young forest, only about a hundred years old. I call this place “my forest” because the forest and I are quite intimate. I walk in a few feet and feel myself curling up next to an old friend on a very alive  couch of ferns and flowers. I smile as I muse, our conversations are many, many years old and we never tire of each other;  “Were you with me in Oregon?”

Growing up in Oregon our family spent many weekends summer-camping in the bush. Dad scouted out logging roads and always found a stream, creek, or river to fish in and would take off after we all helped set up a worn canvas tent and folded blanket sleeping bags.  We slept like sardines in a can. In the early morning Dad disappeared for many hours and mom was left holding a baby while letting the rest of us loose on the earth to play. She somehow kept track of us so we didn’t drown, while making fry bread and drank black coffee out of a plastic cup.  She smiled more when away from home. Both of my parents fit naturally in the wild. I sense a warm breeze touch my heart as I remember some of those happy moments. 

The tension in my belly begins to melt a bit and I think; “ I am working on this book or is it working on me”?  I am stuck on conception and how this mystery could be held in relationship to abortion; how to bring the sacred into such challenging process because it does exist whether we see it or not.  Conception is sacred just as our choice is sacred.   I feel a big blank space in my understanding and my words don’t seem to fill it in.  I will have to grow into this question. 

I sigh out loud and ask my doubting self; “if I don’t get a clear picture is that ok with you?” No clear answer comes, just a feeling of inadequacy and the noisy critic sitting on my shoulder. I reassure myself that it is a good inquiry and certainly relevant to  women. As I muse out loud my head finally begins to clear.  I sense my forest friend is listening, what a faithful resource!

I do a slow walk noticing how impossible it is to continue imposing such a small view of myself in my forest. I chuckle as I think of my granddaughter saying, at only 2 years old,  “it’s not possible, grandma” in her so, so cute voice.   I seem to grow bigger, opening to the beauty all around me. I now know I can wait for the answer to unfold.

I enter into this stand of maple’s all dressed in moss, creating interesting figures modelling a totem pole family.  I feel like saying something to them but its a wordless gesture, its quiet within the language we share.

And then I remember I am going to visit Broken Wing. I hope to see this legendary mother owl again.  Many come to see her with their big lens cameras slung over their shoulder.  She must be all feathers because she is huge and can still sit on a skinny little branch which hangs high above the water fishing.  Those big black eyes seem to be staring at me. I feel a shiver of pleasure.

I remember the first time I saw her a few years ago, I stood very still as a man joined me lugging a huge camera, he spoke as if in prayer. “She has a broken wing and has come here for years around the summer solstice to rest and feed after hatching her babies. She faithfully tends to them for weeks until they are strong enough to fly away. After they leave the nest she is so weak she comes here to replenish herself.”  

My focus sharpened as I appreciate this relationship he has with this bird.  It spoke of my connection with my forest. At that moment both of us stood captivated by her presence. I felt her as strong and wise.  I felt this man respected this mother and seemed to enjoy passing on her story to me.

Broken Wing’s life became a metaphor for my vision of this book which is to honour the woman, the mother and the nearly impossible responsibility it takes to care for our young. Good parenting could change the world. Why don’t we learn from each other rather than shame and guilt trip the learning that life experiences give us. 

I feel my anger rising hooking up with a deep desire to see things in this world change. 

I have connected with a devoted mother owl who is in need of mending and her home the forest which feels like my best friend all because of this book about abortion. I am 75 and life continues to surprise me at how everything fits together. How cool is that! 

Epilogue 

As I finally finished the last revision of the Mending Abortion Trauma with Presence I wanted to finish this little missive about Broken Wing. 

Broken Wing did not show up this year at summer solstice.  I asked a man lugging one of those huge cameras about her.  “She is gone” he said, “ I hear there are two new owls who have taken up residence here.” I felt a twinge of sadness. Maybe her children moved in and she wanted her own space or maybe she is actually gone. I will never know. She made an impact on my heart. She reached out to me in her way and gave me an insight into the wonder of continuing life, conception, mothering, death, plus a new way of relating to nature.  I am part of her life as she is part of mine. 

So here is to Broken Wing, who was beautiful, majestic, even though her feathers were worn and her wing was broken.  Her humble  life mattered to many. She ruled the forest in her way of caring. Just Imagine the instincts that held her to her purpose of procreation year after year, assuring diverse life would continue for my small forest.

Is that not sacred?  If not sacred why did so many love Broken Wing and want to take her picture?  Why did she show up for me at just the right time?