Greatest Hits

I got triggered last Sunday and was not able to hit the reset button until mid-week. If I’m honest, I was feeling depressed and, this is the hardest to admit, a little sorry for myself. I was denying that this was the case until I caught how I was speaking (and that’s being generous) to the other drivers on the road. Thankfully this was all in the privacy of my car, because I turned into an ogress, cursing, demeaning name-calling and yelling in ways I would never allow myself to do or say in person. Of course the reactivity and irritability didn’t stop whenever I reached my destination, even though once I got out of the car I outwardly behaved. By Thursday morning, I’d had enough and summoned my inner parent to put a stop to the bratty temper-tantrums.

It then occurred to me that I have not been paying attention to nor asking for oracles lately. So after my firm self-reproval and as I began a morning walk, I set my intention to be open. Being outside on a sunny day almost always either lifts or enhances my mood, as it did that day. Over the next two days, it was as if the Universe was playing a CD of NN’s Moments of Synchronicity, Greatest Hits. On the last leg of my walk that morning, the sun was at my back for the first time as I returned home. I was immediately reminded of the Universe “having my back” (see Here Comes the Sun post, September 6, 2015) and had to smile as I choked up.

The next day was Friday and I went running on the Greenway with my dear friend Paola. It was a chilly but beautiful morning and as we walked to cool down, we were discussing spirituality. I was talking about my belief in oracles but at the same time discounting them, rehearsing out loud a mock debate I have never actually had, but could, with a scientist who would think me a Pollyanna in my beliefs. As soon as that sentence came out of my mouth, Paola stopped and gave a little gasp of delight, spotting a blue heron in the creek. And it had a fish in its beak.

Now, a singular heron sighting is always a treat to me for several reasons. For one, it is just a majestic creature, odd in its dimensions but somehow poised and distinguished at the same time. I like that herons seem to move in slow motion, intentional and never erratic, their internal metronome seemingly set on tempo lento. And two, before my other precious friend Sonia moved away from Charlotte, she and I would see a heron weekly at Freedom Park or on the Greenway. I can’t think of a time we walked in the morning and didn’t catch sight of one, usually standing in the water nearby, but on special occasions treating us to an elegant lift off and graceful fanning of expansive wings into flight. She told me that the word for heron in Spanish is “garza,” so we dubbed whatever heron we saw each time Mr. Garza (regrettably, we are not savvy enough bird watchers to distinguish a male from a female).   

In all of the times I have walked or run on the Greenway, and that would be many, I have never seen a heron with a catch. That struck me as significant because I am grappling with career choices and not sure what my future will look like. And here was Mr. Garza, with a fish. As if to remind me that I will be able to do the same, sustain myself. Another larger blue heron flew over to the first, and after a few moments, they both ascended up and further down the creek, probably to battle over the meal.  

No sooner had we resumed walking when we heard a screech and looked up, seeing a hawk, wings outstretched and gliding over the creek, flying in the opposite direction of the herons. Again, we stopped to admire this sight. And just for emphasis, once the hawk was no longer in view, a flock of geese flew over our heads, honking and filing into formation. Any one of these events would have been notable, but that all of them happened in rapid succession of one another silenced my momentary doubting of oracles.

The final sweetness to this meandering story is that I have been on the lookout for feathery events since going to Ocracoke a month ago and finding the pair of wings on the sand (see Wings post, September 26, 2015). I’m curious about my new life as the Universe helps me flush out and uncover all that is to come. One incidence occurred at the end of a yoga class, when the teacher instructed, “Tuck your wings under your back…” as we were all laying on our mats in shavasana (a Sanskrit word literally meaning “corpse pose,” and used in yoga to refer to the final resting position at the end of your practice). In shavasana, all activity ceases and the point is contentment with just being, further punctuated by my “wing tucking.” Another pair of wings appeared at the White Party. The White Party is both an annual fundraiser in Charlotte as well as a hell of a soiree. All money collected is donated to local agencies that serve the LGBT community. Wearing white is the only requirement. As a guest, a costume is optional, and it can match the theme (or not), which changes from year to year. I went this year with a group of friends, Kristin being among them, and she advocated that we all dress up. To ensure no resistance, she offered to provide the outfits. How could we refuse? My get up was a black mask, a white gauze tutu, and a beautiful set of, you guessed, translucent and glittery wings. A cross between the Lone Ranger and a fairy, I completed the rig with a camisole and leggings. I had a great time on dance floor, shaking it up with every other fairy and goddess out there.

Hey, I’m still finding glitter in the darnedest places!

NN