One summer evening I went out to pray. I took my usual patio chair against the house facing the back of my yard. Suddenly (what I think was) a golden eagle landed on a tall utility pole amidst the fir trees. Rather than feel distracted from prayer, I went with my distraction. More often, I find that the distraction is the prayer.
This eagle was the largest bird that this city boy has ever been close to in the wild. The utility pole on which it sat was about 30 feet tall and at about 100 feet from me; it seemed to stand at least four feet tall. It landed gracefully, majestically, and faced my direction. It then looked down and surveyed the entire area. If it could speak, I would imagine it saying: “All this is mine. … Now let’s see, what’s for dinner?” I think if I were shorter, I may have been a menu option! It stood there proudly, slowly sweeping its glance left and right. The eagle held not an air of arrogance, but more a posture of certitude which comes from being one with oneself. Then, after a few minutes, without haste, it flew off and left me to ponder.
The eagle left me wondering: where do I go for a broader perspective of life? The utility pole is not a natural perch for the eagle. Where are the equivalent utility poles in my life? Where, when and how do I rise above to get perspective, to seek out nourishment? What unlikely events, persons or places provide me a space to pause, search and wonder? Maybe it was the recent funeral at which I not only realize the blessings given me through the deceased, but also get a sobering sense of my own mortality, a perspective of what has passed and what may lie ahead. While I savor and internalize the love that has passed, I need to fly off, like the eagle, without haste, but rather with deliberate mindful intention.
The eagle had more to give … I couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere in its inherited consciousness there was an instinctual sense that my yard was, if not its ancestral home, its grandparents’ feeding grounds, long before any home was built within this area, any street paved in the township. That initial look of “All this is mine” may have been not far from the truth. I dwell in a home built by another and that someday will be inhabited by another. My current address is within the fifth different state of my lifetime. Someday I too may fly off for another place of nourishment.
The eagle reminded me that I too am a wandering pilgrim. The eagle calls me to respect my space, as a microcosm of all the earth. As I occupy it, I must do so reverently, taking what only what I need to be sure there’s some for the one who follows. As the eagle left, I felt confident that some poor rabbit or squirrel nearby would provide for its needs. I wonder if that will be true for its descendants or will they need to search far from here.
That was the first and last time I saw that or any other eagle. Was the message delivered, and. more importantly, have I heard it and given it a worthy response? Lately we humans live more like drunken destructive tenants, rather than reverent pilgrims. Has the eagle called me to participate in and advocate for the healing and restoration of our shared space, our beautiful earth? Does the eagle warn me that like itself, the space I now inhabit may soon be less inhabitable for my descendants?
The Irish philosopher/theologian, and pillar of Celtic spirituality, John Scotus Eriugena (815-877) taught that God speaks through two books: a little one, the Scriptures, and a big one, the living text of the universe. That evening I recognized God’s voice in the two books. The bigger God-revealing book is always open to us; we only need to pause, be aware and be open.