Owl

The Mysterious Companion

As a child, I lived over summer and winter breaks on my father’s plot of land up on the Lost Coast of California. A rough, wind-raw stretch of foothills, bordering the Pacific. He was building a house there, and during the process we lived in various structures that passed for housing, from campers to the eventual shell of the two-story monolith, itself, bordered by a driftwood fence that contained a wild garden that, in summer, sprouted wayward herbs and overgrown zucchini. One winter, while we were renting a house next door, there was a storm that brought unusually high winds. I remember my father listening to reports on the short-wave radio, and the announcer giving the knots per hour, which, in my child’s mind, conjured images of the wind as long, translucent strands of hair, tangled in the sky, the trees, and around the edges of the house.

  We woke up the next morning and saw, on a piece of upright driftwood by the front door, a small owl, looking a little worse for wear. Its feathers were ruffled and its whole head seemed to be tucked into its neck, like a person wearing a very high turtleneck sweater. It bore an expression of disdain. Or, more accurately, it looked miffed. The owl must have been young and must have been injured. It was about the size of two fists, and the color of oatmeal. It didn’t go anywhere for days. We’d wake up. Owl. Go to bed. Owl. Wake up again, the owl still there, recovering. And then one morning, it was gone. Flown off, I’ve assumed. It was a brief interlude. An owl resting station. And yet, in the interval of years since then, I’ve thought often of our time with the owl. What it felt like to have one so close by, a sentry at the front door.

For some the owl portends death, for others, mystery. And for still others––perhaps it’s the forlorn cry––the owl conjures unrequited love. A friend of mine says her husband sometimes lies awake worrying the owl they that lives in their tree canopy won’t find a mate. I lie awake wishing I could catch a glimpse of the owl that dwells somewhere beyond our deck. A certain editor and I have corresponded for over six years now by sending each other images and videos of owls, often baby ones, as a means of communication. A shorthand for what, exactly?

The main thing I learned about owls in school is that they will eat a rodent whole and then cough up the bones and fur. We learned to seek out these packets––or pellets––of former field mice when out in the woods. I have learned from owls how many truths can be held side-by-side. When I think of the them, I think of loneliness, but also of pairing. I think of grace, but also the furred goofiness of their young. I think of their regal presence, and also their visible regurgitation, another way of saying what they refuse. The way their hunger includes a letting go of what is not needed.

I am not saying I am an owl, but I am also not saying I am unlike an owl. I too can be at once lonely and accompanied, at once elegant and awkward. And when I think of us, of the collective us, I think of how we all hold such dimension. How life pushes us to hold more than we feel we can. How sometimes we hold the pain of the world and also hold a core of peace. Or feel our deep grief and also a sense of deep contentment. And what a mystery we are, poised here at the edge of time for this brief moment, bracing ourselves against the wind.

For upcoming classes and events, go to www.danushalameris.com Writing the Broken Poem is coming up this summer. I can’t promise you baby owls, but I wish I could ; )