Recently, after an unrelenting rain, an unexpected guest showed up at Annie’s when I was staying over one night. An enormous snapping turtle, as big as a small toaster oven, was crawling up the driveway next to her house and, hopefully, towards the pond beyond. Luca was entranced by it and ran outside to ensure its safe passage by throwing chicken wings to it in the direction of the field behind the backyard. Later that night, the air conditioning unit went, and then the power. I joked to Annie that maybe, in animal symbolism, the appearance of a snapping turtle was a portent for electrical failure, especially on a hot humid night.
And that is about the extent of my knowledge of symbolic animal behavior. I am not an animal person, and I’ve barely had pets, although I’ve had some in the form of cats, dogs, lizards, small rodents and fish at different times of my life. I never really felt as though any of them were communicating with me or guiding me in any way, although the bearded Chinese dragon lizard may have tried to implore me with its beady little eyes to liberate him before our cats did, but sadly I didn’t get that message. There’s something I recall about crows gathering—I think that means someone is talking about you—but that could also be erroneous. Or paranoia.
So, even though I’m not really an animal-as-a-sign-or-symbol person, throw a hummingbird into my yard and you’d think Glenda the Good Witch had just landed in her bubble on my porch to grant my every wish. I am drawn to hummingbirds as if I were a cat just inside the window and could watch them flutter and dance around the feeder all day. Me and a million other people, I know. They’re so tiny and strong at the same time, braving migration flights of thousands of miles all on those fragile wings. I put a feeder out every spring and hope that a few will hang out for the summer so I can watch for them while I have my coffee in the morning.
The bald eagle is another bird that I stop everything to watch. (Unless I’m driving, which is the most recent time I spotted one.) There are several who live around Sebago Lake where our cottage is, and my neighbor Sandy once took me to a small(er) island early one morning to watch baby eagles get fed by their mamas. The last time I was there with Luca, I stepped outside for a minute and Sandy called out from her place next door: there was an eagle sitting majestically in the tall pine in between our cottages. I made Luca come down to the water with me to look at it—it stayed put for a few minutes so we could ooohh and ahhhh at it. Even Luca seemed to forget he left his video game to tiptoe down the stairs with me to stare at a bird way up in the tree. Then it took off--probably hunting or heading back to a nest, but the sight of it—for me—is as if I saw a unicorn munching on the blueberry bushes next to our house.
And the loons. I practically knock down small children in my zeal to run down to the water to try and catch sight of the loons when I hear that soulful cry. One night, in Maine, I noticed a single loon about 20 feet out from our waterfront, just sitting there. Usually when I am lucky enough to catch sight of one, it almost immediately dives, only to come up dozens of yards away in any other direction than where it went down. This one just floated and didn’t move, except to drift along with the gentle current in the lake. I decided it was a mama keeping an eye on a nest or babies. She was there the next night, too.
A night or two later, I was sitting outside with my friend Tracy and we heard the call—a loon! Further out than the one from the previous nights, this time it looked like there were at least four of them. A family! I grabbed the binoculars to get a better view; it was dusk and slightly cloudy and the water and the sky had blended into shades of slate and silver. But there they were—and more appeared. I kept counting…eight…twelve…sixteen! I’d never seen that many loons together--ever. It seemed like a sign.
But, I don’t really believe in signs. I might for a minute, but then I remember that omens and signs and symbols and some bird giving me a message is just a form of hope—and I’m having a little trouble with that, lately, too. But I can’t deny the fact that there is something that happens to me when I am in the presence of these birds. A delicate hummingbird’s strength, a bald eagle’s dignity and a loon’s mystical call reach into a part of my brain, my soul and connect me to a greater energy. Maybe it’s as simple as that: we are all creatures living together in the world. Caring for our young, making journeys, standing watch. Being present for each other, not in communication so much, but connection.
Your descriptions are beautiful
When I read them, I feel as if I were there with you and Luca and your friend —and I can see and hear what you have seen and heard
Tears in my eyes … your capture of a key distinction the animal world understands and reminds us. It’s not about communication, but connection. You’ve summed up so much of the contemporary world and how some of us relate and feel peace, others engage in constant chatter and suffer anxiety.