I remember hearing on the news this morning that the groundhog did not notice his shadow, which indicates an early Spring, not holding my breath, just sayin. I’m heading directly to my sisters, as if her home has become a beacon, guiding me safely into port, after a harrowing day at sea. Hope this sort of language isn’t too dramatic for you, I’m in a mood, you’ll have to deal.
I hear Paul McCartney singing, “blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings, and learn to fly…” For some reason the lyrics of this song accost me – words like Blackbird, broken wings, dead of night all command my attention, as these terms seem to be somewhat descriptive of my current situation.
The Blackbird is generally thought to be a symbol of freedom. They can walk on the earth and swim in the sea as humans do but they also have the ability to soar into the sky.
For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing. Ecclesiastics 3:1-8
“Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.” Leonardo da Vinci
“To let go does not mean to get rid of. To let go means to let be. When we let be with compassion, things come and go on their own.” Jack Kornfield
When my sister’s husband of thirty-six years passed away last week, in the dead of the night, it’s as if a huge wedge has gone missing from our lives. My daughter Kelley says we’re sitting Shiva, a Jewish practice for mourning, where family gathers at the deceased home, sitting in low chairs, with covered mirrors, and soft candles, grieving together. And that is exactly what we have been doing minus the covered mirrors.
|Photo credit Mackenzie Wood|
The first stanza repeats, “take these broken wings and learn to fly, all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise.” It interesting because both Nancy and I have “broken wings” so to speak. She broke three bones in her left foot and recently I broke one bone in my right foot. I’ve taken the whole solidarity thing to a whole new level. And so here we sit, broken, bereaved, and I suppose that means we’ll be learning to “fly” once again, but not before the boots come off, and that won’t be for a month.
Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances. Thessalonians 5:16
Death forces one to look at life from a completely different angle, what was familiar is now foreign, uncharted, remote. You don’t sign up for this sort of adventure, it abducts you, and there you are, no bikini wax, worn pedicure, your luggage is lost, and you just know it’s going to be a shitty excursion.
Life keeps moving. The sun rises and sets, the minutes pass, the mail arrives, the laundry piles up, the dishwasher needs emptying. The news comes on but they only focus on the weather, politics, and the polar vortex, no word of our loss, or mention of our personal tragedy. It seems surreal.
We’re all looking towards our loved ones with a little more empathy, compassion, and gratitude. This must be how death teaches us to prioritize that which we value, to let minor resentments go, to recognize the limits on the time we have left. It seems to come down to the quality of our connections, this is what sustains us when we’re feeling depleted. As Oprah says, “lots of people want to ride with you in the limo, but what you want is someone who will take the bus with you when the limo breaks down.”
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? Matthew 6:25-27
I hear Paul sing, “Blackbird fly into the light of the dark black night,” and I have to believe that is exactly the way David went. He is our new bridge between heaven and earth. Nancy was walking (limping) back into the house after running a few errands the other day, when two birds flew directly towards her, parting as they made their approach, landing in adjacent trees only feet away, and they sat there singing her a song. She stood for a while admiring what she considered to be a form of communication. This is what hope looks like, this is why the present darkness does not have the final say, he’s letting her know, “I am here, I am with you, and when you’re ready, you take those broken wings and learn to fly.”
- Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings. Victor Hugo
- I must’ve been a bird in some previous lifetime. I feel like I’m called to flying – the convenience and the beauty of it. That feeling of soaring would be empowering. Rachel Keller
- I felt in need of a great pilgrimage so I sat still for three days. Kabir