Perhaps it was due to living with illness, or merely because she was deeply in tune with the natural world, but Caitlin had an acceptance of death and its role in the wheel of life.
As everyone knows, she loved birds, and had a special respect and affection for owls in particular. Once, some kids at school told her that she looked like a barn owl, and it became a lifelong endearment. After her death, the owl went on to symbolize her quiet wisdom. When Kat David painted her beautiful homage to Caitlin, she included a barn owl.
Katie is home from Spain for the holidays. She wanted to visit us last night, the eve of the anniversary. She suggested that we do a solstice/remembrance ceremony together. Perhaps at the cemetery.
The cemetery project is almost but not yet done for many good reasons I won’t go into. It is a large project – a piece of art. Nick intends it to last 1000 years.
We wanted to get to the cemetery before dusk, so Katie planned to arrive for 2:30. When she knocked on the door, there was a look of shock on her face. ‘Auntie Mare,’ she said. ‘There is a large owl sitting in the corner of your driveway.’
I have always wanted to see an owl. But if an owl was sitting in our driveway, in daylight, it had to be injured. I was scared as I followed her outside.
It was a beautiful barred owl, its feathers ruffling in the wind, with a left wing that was clearly damaged.
It sat quietly in a corner of a stone wall. It didn’t try to move. Its eyes followed us as we moved closer, almost as if it were asking for help.
Back inside, we called mass.gov, wildlife division, where a woman told us we had a choice – that we could let nature take its course or try to find a permitted wildlife rehabilitator. She directed us to a list of names and I began calling ones closest to my town, leaving desperate voice messages.
These people are volunteers, and it was heartening how quickly they called back. The first woman to call back couldn’t get to us but advised us to text a specific other woman and to put a box over the owl to protect it if it tried to move. I texted the reference and meanwhile, another woman I’d reached out to called. She asked if I had a big net. No! My heart was racing. I did not have a net! She began to explain how to use a towel and a shovel to get the bird into a box, so we could bring it to the big veterinary center in central Massachusetts. I was listening but panicking, seriously doubting I could get an actual wild, injured raptor into a box. At this point, Katie took the phone. She asked the woman to repeat the instructions.
She hung up. ‘We’re going to have to do this,’ she said. Her calm gave me courage. I ran up to the attic to find a big box. I grabbed a towel.
But then–thank God— the third woman texted back: I’m twenty minutes away.
We went back out to the driveway to wait for this angel volunteer. The owl had not moved. It watched us. It looked tired and kept closing its eyes. Nearly an hour had passed.
It was emotional. And became more so when the volunteer, Julie, arrived with a helper. She slowly moved backwards towards the owl, holding a black cloth. The owl never flinched. Indeed, it turned its head and watched her approach. When she put the cloth over him, he collapsed. ‘Oh buddy,’ she said. She hugged and rocked him. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She gathered him up, so kind and loving, and propped him against the hood of her car. She had a strong hold on his feet as she inspected the damaged wing. At this point, the owl’s eyes were wide open, looking at me and Katie. Then he spread his one good wing. The magnificence and awe of that wing span as it tried to swoop toward us!
They were not going to be able to save him, Julie said, but the vets at Tufts would euthanize and bury him with dignity. Then she tucked him into the box that she had brought.
It turns out that a large owl can easily fit into a cat’s box. Of course, it felt significant.
She drove off and we got in my car.
How did the owl come to be there, in that protected corner of our driveway? Why did it happen? What was the meaning of it? Was there meaning? We asked ourselves these questions as we drove to the cemetery.
It was close to dusk. We picked evergreens and laid a circle of them on the pallet that will be Caitlin’s final resting place. We lit a candle. We said some things.
Nick calls what he is building a “pass-through.” It is an installation that represents how we pass through the physical life on our way to the spiritual. This is but a tiny sneak peak. There is more to come.
A few other similar bird death incidents happened to Caitlin’s loved ones this week. They are not my stories to share, but my take on these happenings, occurring during the solstice, at the end of a hard year for so many, is to be reminded that death is part of life, and that we are not to fear what’s to come.
These are volatile times on our little planet. It seems essential to connect to nature and to loved ones and find calm in personal community.
Back at the house, Katie made an altar for us to maintain over the Yule period. We lit a fire and a lot of candles.
It has always felt fitting that Caitlin left during the winter solstice. It’s a time for the comfort of dark nights and fires, for grieving and for catharsis, and for waiting for the return of the sun.
xx Happy Yule to all. xx
PS. Just as I am about to post this, I’ve received a texted photo from friends who just visited the pass-through site. Another reminder of the importance of friends and community.
9 Lives Notes 