Conversations with a Soul (2 page)

…
a
bird
that stalks
down his narrow cage can seldom see through
his bars of rage his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing
The
caged
bird
sings
with a fearful trill of things unknown
but longed for still and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the
caged
bird
sings of freedom.
²

Somewhere in early spring the sun finally comes out of hiding and its light and warmth rebuke the gloom and chill of winter. Gradually days become longer; evenings are crowned with lingering sunsets, a sense of anticipation quickens the heart and romance is rekindled.

Then, high in the sky, long squiggly lines faintly tracing V-shaped patterns can be seen flying in from the South.

Pelicans!

To escape the scorching heat of Mexico and the Channel Islands they’ve come north for summer. Without noisy honking or quacking, which always accompanies geese and duck families, small groups of Pelicans silently drift away from the main flock and move into their favourite summer residences.

For the next six months they mate, nest, fish and delight humans with their display of flawless, low level gliding.

Mere inches above the ocean, these feathered aviators slide down the back of a swell, rise to skim the next wave, glide along the surface for a few moments, bank to miss another incoming wave, then down into the trough again only to rise and repeat the sequence over and over again.

Occasionally a secret directive is passed down the line and the glide is interrupted by a leisurely flap of long wings, but not for long. Never missing a beat the group follows their leader’s direction, then, in perfect formation, they float on air and return to the glide.

I never tire of watching them and the watching reaches deep within and awakens a cherished childhood yearning to be able to fly.

Unlike garbage scrounging sea gulls, who also know how to ride the wind, pelicans hunt for their food. The slightest glint of light off silvery scales and the chase is on! With wings tucked in the pelicans plummet down from 20, 30 or even 50 feet.

At the last moment they seem to disintegrate.

Wings unfurl and they hit the water in an awkward nose dive, all signs of their former grace and finesse wiped out.

For the longest time I used to muse that they spent so much time learning to glide, they must have missed the lessons on landing procedures, but now I know differently. That crash, cushioned by air sacks in their wings, sends shock waves down through the water to stun their prey and make it easier for the pelicans to scoop up breakfast, or lunch or maybe just an afternoon snack.

Not far from where I watch the pelicans, a kestrel hovers over a tangled mass of coastal scrub and mock heather. Carefully watched my mama kestrel, perched high in a Monterey pine, papa is working to flush out a field mouse.

Swoop and hover, swoop and hover until finally the mouse’s nerve breaks and he bolts for the entrance to his nest.

Bad decision!

The kestrel drops like a stone and the mouse that went searching for breakfast just became breakfast.

Sanderlings, on the other hand, spend their time speed walking, scuttling back and forth, probing tiny holes in the beach left by receding waves, hoping to find something edible.

A high pitched, harsh scream announces the presence of a beautiful red-tailed hawk who, presumably, cries out to vent his frustration because he is fed-up with being stalked by crows; or he wants to have a word with the family, especially Junior. The family doesn’t seem to spend much time together but they do a great job of keeping the rodent population under control.

Next to the pelicans, hawks are also great fliers, riding the thermals with ease and grace, swooping and climbing, occasionally resorting to a lazy stroke of their wings, almost as an afterthought.

The “Pebble Beach parrots” are another story, although I haven’t seen or heard them for a while.

They would start-up at about six-thirty in the morning. Perched high on the branch of a gnarled oak, two green clad parrots welcomed the morning by hurling insults at each other! Indifferent to the demands of dignified early morning behaviour, or the norms of neighbourhood etiquette, their private parrot disagreements were made public in loud, bawdy squawks and screeches.

One would think that the effort of flying would put a temporary hold on this litany of complaint and accusation, but not so. Forsaking one tree for another, even in flight, they vied for the last word.

For a brief moment, losing sight of each other, a note of anxiety seemed to replace that of reproach. Reunited, they pick up on the argument without a moment’s hesitation. Morning after morning they made their noisy way through the Del Monte Forest, behaving like a cantankerous couple who’d been married for such a long time, that they remembered too little the language of companionship and too well each other’s short comings.

I hope their absence merely signifies that they have decided to explore another part of the forest.

There’s an abundance of bird life in this place.

Woodpeckers behave like miniature jack-hammers boring holes in trees or anything that might pass for a tree including wood fences, cedar shingles and fascia boards. White plumed egrets poise motionless on rocky shores or perch on kelp several hundred feet offshore.

Idiotic crows, the self-appointed neighbourhood custodians of the forest, who forever warn the world of my passing with raspy, harsh cries. Ducks and duck families as well as Canadian geese, together with their brood of feather-ball goslings, use up their days foraging, while tiny hummingbirds spend so much time defending their territory they barely seem to have much time left to enjoy life.

It’s impossible to walk through the Del Monte forest and not have my attention summoned by one or more bird families, and once summoned, who knows where the image will lead, what flights of imagination, what journeys of wonder, what questions and discontents, what powerful urges will claim me?

No wonder bird imagery has played such a long and potent role in the stories and myths of humankind.

From ancient Egypt came the
Ba,
a mythical bird with a human face. It lived forever, bestowing immortality on the mortal. Free to journey wherever it wished, at liberty to change its shape yet required to return periodically to the tomb so that it could find nourishment. The lifeless lived again in the Ba’s flight.

Its origins lost in the mists of time, the mystical
Griffin
combined the strength of a lion and the speed of an eagle. To this day it can be found perched high on the walls of ancient stone churches and monuments, the watchful guardian of shrines and sacred places.

Dove
imagery is deeply written into Christian art, symbol of a dialogue between earth and heaven.

We borrow the image again when we set in opposition
Doves
and
Hawks
to offer us a short-hand language by which to speak about those who are for and those against war.

Blackbirds
and
Crows
were almost universally thought of as emissaries of the dark arts, whose appearance portended an evil or disastrous event.

Every five years the mythical
Phoenix
destroyed itself by fire so that its offspring could rise from the ashes, emulating the wonder of the sun that dies at night and is reborn every morning.

The
Thunder Bird
, widespread amongst Native American lore, sometimes destructive, sometimes nurturing; shares a common significance with the powerful
Eagle
emblazoned on the standards carried by soldiers of the Roman Empire, the sight of which proclaimed that an army was on the march.

In sharp contrast, the
Japanese Crane
, symbol of peace and hope that today adorns Hiroshima Peace Park, admonishes our easy acceptance of the weapons of destruction.

Bird images have served us well.

They are powerful and have the ability to reach deep inside us, touching places in our being that we keep well hidden.

A few miles north of Point Lobos, at a place called Point Joe, a huge rock juts up out of the surging ocean. At high tide, wild, powerful, wave’s crash over the top, sending spray flying in all directions, but at low tide, everything calms down, and invites a moment of quiet reflection.

For whatever reason, probably because it’s much quieter here than at Point Lobos, and that results in less interruption to the flow of bird thought, about five or six cormorants habitually gather to sit on that rock. For reasons unknown to me they usually face each other in a circle as though in deep discussion.

At other times, they all stare out to sea, gazing in the same direction, claimed by some unexplained vision. Their black heads and feathers look like black, hooded capes and manage to clothe the otherwise rather drab birds with a certain air of mystery and dignity, leading one to the impression that they have gathered to make critical decisions for the welfare of the flock.

Over several weeks the image worked its way into my imagination and I came to playfully think of them as
the Conclave,
secretly meeting to share their wisdom about issues known only to the bird assembly.

I didn’t realise it at the time but my Soul was about to initiate a conversation.

Then, one morning, as I passed the group of cormorants in their usual private conference, something stirred deep within. The image had ignited my imagination and my Soul authored a question:

Was I aware that deep within me, there was just such an assembly? Did I understand that I was heir to a Community who secretly lived inside me and who could be summoned if and when I called out to them?

Far more than merely a handful of memories of this or that person, more than snippets of advice, more than a loved history, more than a journey taken together, there resided within a vital presence, a gathering of the men and women who had once stirred my imagination, warmed my heart, breathed inspiration into the common and ordinary and gifted me with their wisdom.

I went along with the image and suddenly felt a strange compulsion to name and call out the men and women who could claim membership in
my personal community of beloved Guides:

A clergywoman who believed in me with such ferocity that I, a clumsy teenager, began to believe in myself and pulled back from an ocean of despair, and if she was part of that sacred company, then I would surely hear the familiar gurgle of her laughter in those moments when silence closed about me.

Was a revered professor and friend long since dead, still there with his insistence that the most important task for human beings was to put together meaning for their lives? Was my old philosophy teacher still there with his tremendous intellect and his even greater compassion for people, especially for those who suffered both perpetrator and victim alike?

One of that mysterious community saved me from mortgaging my life to guilt and ignorance, for she taught me about the mysteries of her body and of my own. Her infectious laughter called forth my own. Hers was the gift of intimacy and playfulness for she taught me how to abandon myself to enjoy sexuality without guilt or remorse. She taught me how to live outside my head and enjoy a physical world of which I was a part. That world could so easily have given birth to shame, and become a denial of the richness of intimacy, such as I have often seen in my fellow men.