Somehow the spaciousness I spoke of last week has managed to stick around for the most part. My breathing feels deeper, my energy feels clearer and my ability to create a narrative around my experience feels…well, somewhat blissfully difficult.
I was walking home the other day and tuned in to listen to any spark of inspiration that might be there for writing this week. My eyes instantly caught a crow carrying something. Before I could question the ‘sign’, several other crows flew past and my memory went to something that happened a few weeks ago.
It was early morning and I was walking around my favorite Seattle park. It’s a peninsula that juts out into Lake Washington, housing the only old-growth forest still left in the city as well as a jaw-dropping view of Mount Rainier when the weather is right (as it has been a lot lately).
The crows were particularly rambunctious that day, and they were harshing my mellow quite a bit with incessant cawing. I figured they were angry at an eagle or something, but you never know with crows. It’s often safe to take the narcissistic bent with them and assume it’s all about you, ‘cuz they sure do tend to vocalize when they’re unhappy with a human, and they sure do tend to be unhappy with humans a lot. There’s an entire blog dedicated to mapping blocks in Seattle it’s best not to walk down in order to avoid crow dive-bombing.
As the murder followed me around the park, there was one crow that was flying out over me and then back into the woods, with something in its mouth. Finally it flew out, from the top of an evergreen, and dropped the something right in front of me: a pinecone. It seemed too perfectly choreographed, and in the state I was in (read: very upset) I took it as a sign.
Ah, signs. My history as a diviner goes back quite a ways. In this life, I feel I’ve used the whole “universe please give me a sign” thing in such inappropriate ways that I often have a hard time discerning them at this point. There is a difference between “universe, please give me a sign that my father is with me” and “universe, if that ring is still in the store in one week I’ll take it as a sign that I should buy it.” I get that. I’m even starting to honor it, too! I’ve lessened the frequency with which I pull tarot cards, and the questions I’m asking are more focused and less mundane.
I suppose this is part of a larger process, that of reclaiming or learning how to hear my intuition. I have a lot of wounding around the theme of betrayal, which of course creates trust issues. At the core, however, is a deep fear of trusting the universe. More pressingly it’s a fear of trusting myself. That makes the intuition hard to access.
I’m aware that collectively speaking, the wound of separation is quite oozy at this point. Mythologically, the roots go back to separation from source or god or light or divinity — whatever language you want to use. The ripples of the wound, or the attempts to recreate the trauma so that we can heal it, are everywhere. Separation from the womb. Differentiation from the parent. Separation from intuition. From the earth, from our bodies, our lovers, our children…
I remember being shocked when I started piecing together the fact that when we die we seem to fragment or separate even more. Consciousness separates from the body. Perhaps a part of us stays Earth bound, while other parts go to the light or run around some bardo state. Or perhaps that’s all just linear logic trying to make sense of complex processes. And perhaps all of these processes are all happening at once in a sphere rather than a line, and so an adjustment to the narrative could just be “it’s all happening at once, and so everything is connected; we just separate to categorize and create language…”
These are all fascinating points to ponder and to work with. I suppose what’s interesting in light of the crow story is the act of rehabilitating that sense of connection. A crow drops a pinecone in front of me. What was I struggling with at the time? Clarity. Feeling like I didn’t know anything, like I couldn’t see straight, like I couldn’t figure anything out. What does a pinecone represent? Well, the third eye for one. Clarity. Sight.
I am aware and do believe that we live in an inherently connected world. Ensuring that that belief resonates with all parts of me — that the betrayed and distrustful pieces get the memo — appears to be lifelong, very worthy work. The glorious thing about choosing to accept the belief that the crow dropped the pinecone as a symbol for me means that I have something new to work with, in whatever way I choose, that has relevance for me. It also means I’m embracing an existence in an inherently connected cosmos, and there is so much healing in that.