My good friends know that for a period of four years or so I studied the Corvidae (Corvidae is a cosmopolitan family of oscine passerine birds that contains the crows, ravens, rooks, jackdaws, jays, magpies, treepies, choughs and nutcrackers)
After a particularly big loss in my life, a nutty, humourous bird, An American Crow, I'd come to name Magellan, swooped down and lifted up the top of my hair on the crown of my head and then giggled at my awe-filled disorientation of the event in a branch above my driveway. That was the beginning of a three year friendship.
There were many stories about Magellan over the years that I'd shared with you here on FB. They were mostly humorous, but to me, awe inspiring. I'd developed a call he could understand and respond to. He introduced me to the three seasons of hatchlings he and his mate Maria had. His social experiment made it through the ranks of the expansive SW Roost, whom, in large part reside among the Fanno from southwest towns and sometimes stretching to Hoyt Arboretum. At one point, and I'll never forget this, one cold winter day at a time where there wasn't much to eat, a large majority of the SW Fanno roost descended on my property. It was the first time I'd realized this species' intelligence. They are communicators, sentient beings.
I kept the gifts he'd given me and placed them in a nest I'd made for an art installation.
The most painful and poignant memory I have is the song he sang for me before he died. He'd been practicing my whistle and one clear fall day, on his regular branch, he sang that song for me. It took me a second to realize it was him. That was the last song he would sing for me.
Before Magellan so unceremoniously introduced himself into my life, I was not a person who was engaging in Nature as I once had. Traumatic instances were pulling my attention away, a narrowed in focus that made my life nearly unbearable. For me, Nature is in the blood. My family are habitat restoration scientists. Over the years I learned more about ecology than I'd ever really need in my life, but it went along with who I was. I was at home in nature, sometimes more so than in human company. But Magellan's time in my life was an experience. It was an experience where the Universe reached out to me and said, "we must not let this part of you die." This experience in my life was shared by family and friends. My friend Julia Oldham made the artwork you see in the image. My mother knitted a doll of Magellan for me one Christmas.
The point is, that it was one testimony to the fact that I am not a lone facilitator here. There is indeed something, someone, some system, much, much larger than I, very engaged in my process of living. It knows when I am in danger, it knows when I am in pain, it knows when to protect me. To this day, I simply cannot explain away its presence.
When I look at this little art installation in my home of the memory of that experience I am reminded of this. Somehow it gives me comfort as it expands my vision, zooms it out when I become rigid, too drilled in, when I lose the Nature of my humanity through struggle. There have been other miracles I've seen since Magellan's passing, miracles I've been lucky enough to witness, miracles with humans and with the animal kingdom. Because of this one experience with Magellan, I can now see them for what they are. Reminders of connection to the Whole. For this I am so very grateful. Grateful of the memory and the experience.
