The Hawk

The sky was bright blue as I walked across the golden grassy field to sit down by the river, where the cottonwoods grow tall and the northern flickers and magpies come to feast.

But there was nothing pastoral about the wind. Gusts over 40 miles an hour buffeted me, causing me to lean forward to keep steady, and I found myself wondering why I hadn’t chosen a more sheltered location for this short walk and a sit.

Then a hawk! A small one, white bellied, dove from a river tree and headed for some unseen-to-me prey.

The hawk flew hard into the gusty expanse, its body jerking left and right, wings tilting up and down with the invisible forces of the wind, nothing of the smooth glide it would have had on most any other day.

It hit the ground momentarily and rose again, talons empty.

I felt awe and humility, as I do whenever I watch a bird of prey hunt. I also felt the dawning awareness of a more specific gift that had been given to me in this moment: my life is no different than that of the hawk’s. I, too, am compelled to dive toward that which sustains my life. I, too, am buffeted by the wind, by forces seen and unseen. I, too, rise again and again, sometimes with nothing to show for my effort.

Yet how many times have I lamented my lack of smooth flight, as though I am immune to the wind? How many times have I been hard on myself for coming up empty-handed, as though this emptiness signals something about my character, my competence, my belongingness? How many times have I imagined that I have something more essential to do than sit in the tree and watch for food, as though my sustenance is of no consequence?

As the hawk flew off choppily into the westerly wind, I realized that the error is when I insist on being something other than what I actually am, which leads me to cultivate harsh judgments about the times when my flight is not smooth or when my hands come up empty or when I must lay everything else down in order to feed my body or soul.

What hubris, I thought. What ignorance. What a loss, to imagine I am something other than a hawk, other than a tree, other than the river rising with the spring melt.

I turned away from the field and walked down to the river to sit awhile, where I felt freedom and relief blossom inside like a prickly pear cactus blooming in early summer. Ah, I thought - yes, I am that, too!

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