The BluebirdIt’s a stormy midnight. Thunder cracks, booms, ricochets across the desert mountains. Flashes of lightning jolt the darkness in random patterns. Pine trees in silhouette are spirits on the move. Mysterious forces are at play. A bluebird huddles on a pinyon branch that sways and dances in the wind. Alone, bewildered in the storm, her claws clutch at a rough scrap of bark. In another brilliant flash, soft pine-needle ground is illumined. In an instant, she flies across the velvet black to land at the trunk of a tree where she huddles, shivers rain from her wings, then scratches a small place in the earth. The bluebird hunkers down and waits. The high desert in a monsoon storm at night is not a natural place for a bluebird. Bluebirds thrive in the habitat of deciduous trees, lush valleys and soft green earth. Every year life calls vast flocks of bluebirds to leave those lovely safe places to wing their way over open prairie, rugged low hills and desert mountains on their way—north or south, according to the season—to reach their breeding ground or to survive the winter. In the high desert, bluebird flocks pause only long enough to feed for a few weeks before the song of woodlands, fields and lush valleys call in their blood. Today, bluebirds have greater dangers to face than a passing storm. The growing heat of climate crisis endangers birds of all kinds. Greed, lust for power, extraordinary wanton cruelty rule in the human world. Loud, foul-smelling machines devour the landscape, rip up trees, shrubs, and wildflowers by the roots, destroy the plant world that produces seeds to eat and places to nest. Every year the magical sight of bluebird flocks in murmuration dwindles. Harbingers of soul, bluebirds speak to me. A glimpse into the bluebird’s story is, of course, a metaphor with different levels of meaning. Its images and symbols have the power to take you deeper—like a myth or a dream. Our bluebird is bewildered, confused, separated from her kinfolk. She is lost in an unpredictable, unknown place that is not natural for her, bereft of the natural wisdom of the flock to help guide her way. Perhaps she has flown off course, and she yearns for safety. At this moment she does not know where she is or how to rejoin her kin. In her bewilderment, all she has in this moment is to follow her instinct to huddle against the earth in the dark, warm, rushing storm. Is our moment of bewilderment any different than a bluebird caught in a gale? It’s an experience so ancient that it is mythological. Fragile, vulnerable creatures, bluebirds conjure images of goodness, sweetness, and innocence. I think of how the bluebird of happiness sings even in the ravaged heart of a poet like Charles Bukowski. Amplifying the image of a lone bluebird, my imagination then goes to bluebird flocks in murmuration…rising, taking shape one against another in a perfect flowing, morphing harmony of constant change in flight. Their flight is an awesome creation in motion, moved by a wild impulse—a deep and unerring instinct. How does the Sacred emerge from the story, its images, and all the associations that come naturally with it? Even flying blind through the raging night, it is the organic innocence, the innate knowing of her body that responds, bringing her safely to shelter. Bluebirds do not know why they do what they do. They do not remember or reflect, gaze into their own depths. They are moved by an instantaneous knowing of muscle, blood, bone, feather and beak… The bluebird does not cry out “why” but a wordless, innate “how” and “when.” She keeps going, no matter what. She moves in flight as she is compelled from within. Clinging to the pine bough, she waits only long enough to push off in a momentary lull of the storm. Then, swiftly, she wings her way to the ground. There, on the earthen floor of Earth, she takes refuge. Meanwhile, the storm roars, clouds empty their deluge, drift on, and the desert sun dawns to softly seep away the shadows of night. Her black eyes open to bright puffs of cloud in an azure sky, and she sings for the joy of another day. In the heaving spirit of our times, the life of the soul teeters on the brink of oblivion. How do we know where to land when we don’t even know if we will land? Where is our ground, our shelter in the storm? When and where do we hold on, when to let go and fly? Like the bluebird, we too have holy instinct, and however buried under modernity it may be, our instinct is unerring. Then, even lost and bewildered souls somehow find a way through. And yet…human beings are given gifts of Creation far beyond the bluebird’s. We have the capacity to become aware of the beauty and majesty of Creation and of our place in it. When that innate capacity comes to life, we are reunited with the origins of Creation. Reconnected even briefly to the source, wonder and awe comes, bringing an ambrosial wash of transforming energies. Socrates said, “Wisdom begins in wonder.” It is wise to court wonder! The direct, immediate way to glimpse the awesome, wondrous, ineffable nature of Reality is to contemplate Great Nature and her five elements—earth, water, air, fire and space. Go to the mountain, the woods, the ocean, the garden. We glean insights about how the Universe works from Mother Nature—her realities and narratives and processes of creation, preservation, and destruction. How things are concealed and revealed. When things are concealed, our bewilderment becomes another doorway to a. moment of revelation. Everything that is created has times of not knowing, of bewilderment, of a certain undoing, of letting go into death of one kind or another. Befriending the Unknown is both serious and light-hearted: we’re not meant to know anything in this moment! It might even be a relief to realize that we do not have the answers. It’s a wu wei kind of practice—a “non-doing,” allowing things to settle themselves until, suddenly, something is revealed. A wordless insight, a spontaneous change occurs, we have a relaxation in the gut, a dream or vision takes us. Somehow, a way forward appears and we know exactly what action is needed. When we resolve to wait and stay in place without striving, controlling, or knowing the answers, a great mystery arises. We are lifted in a whorl of grace that moves us through conflicts and paradoxes and on into the next moment of arising. Like the bluebird, we open our eyes and discover that the bitter, terrible night has given way to another day and the mountains are washed in purple and limned in gold. Then, the heart breaks open with ecstasy and the soul takes flight. Mary Angelon Young
April 17, 2024
Triveni
|
