On Grand Avenue, not far from where we live, there is a bluff from which you can see a wide swath of Puget Sound, from Admiralty Inlet across to Whidbey Island, then beyond to the Olympic Mountain range.
You can stand on the very spot where in 1793 Captain Vancouver stood and examined his vessel, the HMS Discovery, in the harbor.
It was, is and shall always be a place for discovery and contemplation.
Marsha is the Captain Vancouver of our family for she’s the one forever discovering new things in our neighborhood. Were it not for her I’m afraid I’d miss half of what happens around me on our walks.
Marsha sees:
- the birds’ nests in the trees above,
- the children playing in their yards,
- the rhododendrons blooming,
- the herons flying across the bay.
Just the other morning she stopped me cold in my tracks and said, in a grave tone, “Don’t move.”
She then dropped down to pick up a wandering snail from the sidewalk and safely placed it in the parkway (one of three such occasions on that particular walk).
On another recent walk she stopped suddenly, looking out into the street. There, lying in the road, was a seagull. We happened to cross paths with a neighbor coming out of her house. Together, the three of us ventured into the street to investigate. The seagull was dead, and the neighbor, with great gentleness, carried it across and placed it in the grass.
We were all still, speaking quietly about what might have happened, but mostly just sharing a moment of reverence for the creature who had passed.
In the mornings, Marsha and I often like to loop around our block a few times, so about five minutes later, we returned once again to the place where the seagull lay. But this time, a gathering had begun to form in the sky above — one, then three, then maybe twelve seagulls circled, calling out in their high-pitched tones. They circled and circled, calling and calling. We stood and kept vigil with them for several minutes, moved by the ritual that played out.
We made one more loop and when we returned to the spot the final time, the birds had gone, their watch apparently complete.
It was in every way — a seagull send-off.
I thought about the flock and realized they would be forever changed now, without their fallen member. They would have to rearrange themselves in some new way.
Haven’t we all experienced something like that?
It seems like just yesterday I was headed out the door with my dad, my brother Steve, and my brother Kevin to take flight on some adventure — the male “sub-flock” in the larger flock of our family.
It was Dad who taught us all how to fly and my brothers and I loved to challenge each other to fly higher.
For many years our flock kept its familiar formation.
Then, suddenly, the men in my flock, one by one, began to fall from the sky…
…till one day there was only me.
For a moment, my heart broke all over again.
But then I remembered: in creation, nothing is ever truly lost, only rearranged — and my father and brothers haven’t fallen from the sky, but rather have reached a higher altitude, one I can hardly imagine.
I realized none of us flies in an empty sky; we soar in the wake of those who have caught the infinite updraft.
What Marsha and I witnessed that morning was a grand send-off of a gull called to break ranks with its flock and fly to a higher altitude to join a new flock in eternity.
A reminder to those left behind — even when the formation changes…
…the connection remains.
Now, Marsha and I are part of a new flock and find ourselves with a sacred duty of helping a younger generation take flight and soar.
“Overcome space, and all we have left is Here. Overcome time, and all we have left is Now.” ―
Just a thought…
Pat and Marsha