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Where Creation Becomes Scripture
God in the Wild: Lessons in Grace with Animals
God speaks through creation — in the wings of hawks, the quiet presence of squirrels, the calls of magpies, and the unexpected messengers along the trail. These stories reveal divine guidance through timing, instinct, memory, and the living world, offering lessons in trust, closure, courage, and grace.
God in the Wild: Grace of Interruption
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The Week My Body Broke Open and the Wild Stepped In Before I Did
Some weeks do not simply unfold — they intervene. They tilt the ground beneath your feet, stop you mid‑stride, and force you into a stillness you would never choose on your own. These are the weeks when life rearranges itself through pain, through timing, through exhaustion, through the unmistakable choreography of the wild.
They arrive not to punish you, but to protect you — to halt the pace that is breaking you, to slow the rhythm that is draining you, to keep you from crossing a threshold your body cannot survive.
This was one of those weeks — a week shaped by rupture, by boundaries, by emergence, by exhaustion, and by the presence of animals who appeared at the exact moment my body demanded a halt. A week where the wild stepped forward not to comfort me, but to interrupt me. A week where every messenger carried the same truth: Stop before you break.
It began with pain — sharp, relentless, unignorable. Sciatica. Pelvis. Glute. A week of agony that made sleep impossible, movement difficult, and even breathing feel like work. I had been hurt before, but this was different. This was not a flare. This was not a two‑day setback. This was a full stop.
And beneath the physical pain was a deeper truth rising: I was doing too much again.
The part‑time office job that has quietly become more than I can hold. Twenty plus hours of pet‑sitting and behavior work. Writing. Two websites. Nature work. Sanctuary work. Spiritual work.
My body had become the first messenger — the one that said what I refused to admit: “Slow down. You are slipping back into the pattern that made you sick in 2023.”
And the moment my body broke open, the wild began to gather.
The Squirrels and the First Softening
The first sign was gentle — almost deceptively so. Squirrels everywhere. Not two or three. Dozens.
They moved across Fairmount Cemetery with a confidence that felt almost territorial, as if they had reclaimed a space that had been dormant for too long.
They chased one another up trunks, stretched across branches like small acrobats, playing hide and seek behind the gravestones, and filled the air with bright, insistent chatter.
Squirrels symbolize grounding, territory, preparation, and the return of life to places that have felt stagnant. Their sudden abundance was not random. It was the land recalibrating beneath my feet — the wild saying: “Anchor yourself. You are about to be slowed.”
And then came the softest messenger of the week — the fearful cat who had been living inside the couch while I was at his home.
Then, Artie emerged. Not cautiously. Not halfway. Fully.
He played. He explored. He trusted.
He came out at the exact moment my body forced me into stillness — as if his emergence depended on my slowing, as if his trust required my pause.
His message was unmistakable: “When you stop rushing, fear dissolves.”
And the fact that this client lived near my old Denver apartment — the place where my life began here — was not accidental. I was literally driving past my origin point every day while a fearful cat learned to trust me.
This was choreography.
The Red Tail and the First Warning of Sovereignty
At Bear Creek Park, the air felt heavy — not oppressive, but charged, as if something was waiting to reveal itself.
And then she appeared.
A red‑tailed hawk — the first I had ever seen in that park — perched high, her silhouette sharp against the sky. Red tails symbolize sovereignty, direction, and personal authority. They arrive when your footing returns, when your voice strengthens, when your fear loosens its grip.
Her presence was not casual. It was directional. She was the wild saying: “Your authority is rising. But you cannot carry sovereignty at a pace that breaks you.”
That night, the male Cooper’s hawk appeared at Jewell Wetlands — sharp, precise, boundary‑driven. Cooper’s hawks are pattern‑keepers. They enforce truth. They appear when clarity is required.
His message: “Your boundaries must tighten. Your pace must change.”
The Shadow and the Mobbing
The Animal Messengers Teaching Lessons Through Nature
The Turkey Vulture, the Shadow, and the Mobbing
Tuesday carried rupture.
A turkey vulture flew low over the house while I watered the plants — slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial. Vultures are purifiers. They appear when something has ended, when the old cycle is ready to be cleared, when the spiritual landscape is shifting.
His presence was the wild saying: “Something old is ending. Let it end.”
But the day wasn’t finished.
At Windsor Gardens Highline trail, the Cooper’s hawk was mobbed by three blue jays — relentless, loud, territorial. Blue jays defend what matters. They chase away what threatens the field. They do not tolerate intrusion.
Their message: “Protect your energy. Defend your territory. Stop letting chaos in.”
And then came the shadow — the silhouette of the Cooper’s hawk and a squirrel in the same tree as the storm rolled in. The sky darkened. The air thickened. Light and dark merged into a single image.
Predator and prey. Fear and stillness. Shadow and truth.
It was a moment that belonged to Shadowland — the wild saying: “Your shadow is rising. Face it before it consumes you.”
The Turtles and the Swainson’s Hawk
Wednesday slowed the entire field.
At Jewell Wetlands, turtles appeared — one after another, moving with ancient patience. Turtles symbolize longevity, endurance, and the truth that healing cannot be rushed.
Their presence was the wild saying: “Your body needs time. Stop trying to outrun your injury.”
Later, at Bluff Lake, a Swainson’s hawk appeared — the bird of migration, identity shift, and long‑distance transformation. Swainson’s hawks do not appear when life is stable. They appear when the soul is moving.
His message: “Your identity is shifting. Let the migration happen.”
The Snake and the Return of Clarity
A snake crossed the path — smooth, deliberate, unhurried. Snakes symbolize shedding, rebirth, and the dissolution of the old self. His presence was the wild saying: “Release what no longer fits. You cannot carry old patterns into new chapters.”
And again, the male Cooper’s hawk — the third appearance in four days — marking truth, boundaries, and precision. He was the wild saying: “Cut away what drains you. Your energy is finite.”
The Rabbits, the Cooper’s Hawk, and the Bald Eagle Who Allowed Me In
Friday carried innocence and sovereignty.
Rabbits appeared — singles and pairs — playing, leaping, softening the field. Rabbits symbolize innocence returning after fear, joy returning after heaviness, gentleness returning after rupture.
Their message: “Joy is returning. Let it soften you.”
The male Cooper’s hawk appeared again — the fourth time this week — marking clarity, truth, and alignment.
And then came the bald eagle at the sanctuary.
For the first time ever, I entered her mews alone.
She watched me with those intense, sovereign eyes — not in fear, not in dominance, but in a kind of mutual awareness. She allowed me to walk past her multiple times. She allowed me to clean next to her pool. She allowed me to place her food under her hood perch. She allowed me to pick up leftovers in her mews, her territory. She allowed me to exist in her world without tension.
This was not casual. This was not routine. This was initiation. Her message: “You are being trusted with deeper territory. But only if you slow down enough to hold it.”
Even the golden eagle and the male bald eagle softened — coming close, grabbing food in front of me, choosing proximity. Their message: “Your energy is aligned. Stay steady. Do not rush your calling.”
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The Animals and the Fire: Renewal Through the Burn
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The Red Tail Juvenile, the Deer, and the Raccoon in the Burn
Saturday carried rebirth — not in a single symbol, but in a sequence so layered it felt like the wild was stitching the final thread of the week’s message.
It began at home, with the entire red‑tail family gathered on the pole — the juvenile squeeing in that raw, unfiltered way only young hawks do, his voice sharp enough to cut through the morning air. The female perched steady beside him, the male anchored on the other side, the three of them forming a living arc of lineage, protection, and rising sovereignty.
Juvenile red tails symbolize new voice, new authority, and new identity — but when the parents are present, the meaning deepens. It becomes inheritance, continuity, and the passing of instinct from one generation to the next. The juvenile wasn’t just calling for food or attention. He was calling out the moment — announcing his place in the world, claiming his voice, rising into the sovereignty his parents were modeling.
Their message was layered: “Your new voice is forming. You are not rising alone. You are supported by lineage, instinct, and protection.”
Later at Star K Ranch, the theme continued.
A deer family stepped into the open field — the mother watching me with a stillness that felt almost ceremonial, the fawns still covered in white spots, innocence embodied in small bodies. They moved with a gentleness that softened the entire landscape, turning the burned edges of the week into something tender, something survivable.
Deer symbolize maternal protection, gentleness, and the return of softness after rupture. Their presence was not casual. It was relational — a reminder that even in seasons of pain and interruption, there are moments where the world leans close enough to say: “You are held. You are protected. You are not alone in this slowing.”
And then came the raccoon — the final messenger of the day, and perhaps the most symbolic.
He was curled inside a large hollow of a tree, facing the burned field, his small body tucked into the first green tree at the exact edge where the fire had stopped. Before him, the charred earth stretched out in a dark scar. Behind him, new growth rose in bright defiance. His tree was the threshold — the literal border between destruction and renewal.
He wasn’t hiding from the burn. He was watching it. He was facing it.
Raccoons symbolize resourcefulness, survival, and the ability to endure what scorches the landscape. But this one carried something deeper — the truth that healing often begins at the exact edge of what hurt you. He chose the tree where the burn ended, the place where life began again, the threshold between what was destroyed and what was returning.
His message was unmistakable: “Healing begins at the edge of destruction. You are standing at that edge now. Face what burned you — and rise where the green begins.”
The Wild Speaks — The Altar of Interruption
By the end of the week, the pattern was unmistakable.
This was not a series of sightings. This was not coincidence. This was not chaos.
This was an altar — not built in feathers this time, but in interruption. An altar assembled through timing, through presence, through the exact moments when my body faltered and the wild stepped forward to hold the edges of my life steady. Every messenger arrived with precision, as if the unseen had orchestrated each encounter long before the pain began.
The squirrels grounded the field. Artie emerged from fear. The red tail marked sovereignty. The Cooper’s hawk enforced boundaries. The turkey vulture cleared the old. The turtles slowed the pace. The Swainson’s hawk marked identity shift. The snake symbolized shedding. The rabbits returned innocence. The bald eagle initiated calling. The golden and male bald eagle affirmed alignment. The deer offered gentleness. The raccoon marked rebirth.
Together they formed a living altar — a constellation of messengers who appeared exactly when the pace became unsustainable, each one carrying a different facet of the same truth: Stop. Listen. You are being redirected.
This was choreography — the kind that reveals itself only when the unseen is speaking through creation. This was ceremony — the wild gathering itself around me in a unified voice. This was God in the Wild — not comforting me, but intervening.
The animals were not appearing randomly. They were assembling — each one stepping forward at the exact moment my body demanded stillness, each one delivering a truth I needed to see: You are being interrupted. You are being protected. You are being slowed before you break.
This was the altar in motion — the wild marking every interruption with precision, reminding me that even forced stillness can be sacred.
The Soul Lesson — The Grace of Interruption
Looking back, the thread is clear.
Every messenger carried a different facet of the same truth — a truth I would not have recognized without the wild speaking through so many bodies, so many symbols, so many perfectly timed encounters.
Pain revealed what was fragile. Trust emerged where fear once lived. Sovereignty rose where exhaustion had settled. Boundaries tightened where chaos had taken root. Innocence returned where overwhelm had grown. Calling strengthened where doubt had lingered. Rebirth formed exactly where burnout had scorched the ground.
This week was not collapse. It was protection — the kind that arrives disguised as limitation. This week was not punishment. It was intervention — the kind that prevents a deeper breaking. This week was not chaos. It was choreography — the wild rearranging my pace so my spirit could survive the season ahead.
The Grace of Interruption is not gentle. It does not whisper. It does not wait for permission.
It arrives through pain, through slowing, through the sudden halt that forces you to confront the truth you’ve been outrunning. It is the grace that appears when your body breaks open and the wild steps in before you do — the grace that slows you before you shatter, the grace that forces rest before the next rise, the grace that protects your calling from the pace that would destroy it.
Interruption is not the end of momentum. It is the protection of purpose.
This is the Grace of Interruption — the grace that reminds you that stopping is sometimes the most sacred act of survival, the grace that teaches you that stillness is not failure, the grace that reveals that your path is being guarded even when your body feels broken.
This is my interruption. This is my slowing. This is my protection. This is my grace.
God in the Wild: Grace of Continuance
The Week the Land Kept Speaking Even When I Wanted to Give Up
Some weeks do not simply unfold — they lengthen. They stretch themselves across days and landscapes, threading meaning through moments you didn’t realize were connected. They do not arrive as a single sign or a single encounter. They arrive as a sequence — a continuation — a message that refuses to fade even when your hope does.
These are the weeks when the wild does not whisper once and disappear. These are the weeks when the land keeps speaking, again and again, until the truth settles into your bones. These are the weeks when every creature becomes a messenger, every encounter becomes a thread, and every day becomes another step in a conversation you didn’t know you were having.
This was one of those weeks — a week shaped by grief, by pressure, by lineage, by recognition, and by the unmistakable persistence of the wild. A week where discouragement rose, where uncertainty pressed in, where something preventable broke my heart — and yet the wild kept answering.
A week where the land said, with unmistakable clarity: Hope does not collapse. It continues.
It began with gentleness — deer stepping into my path, a Cooper’s hawk revealing a new nest — but the week did not stay gentle. It deepened. It darkened. It expanded. And through every shift, the wild kept speaking.
This is the Grace of Continuance — the grace that arrives not in a single moment, but in a sequence.
The Mama Cat and the First Break in the Field
Before the hawks. Before the catbird. Before the lineage revealed itself. There was the mama cat.
She was young — barely more than a kitten herself — trying to raise her babies in a space that wasn’t safe enough, wasn’t prepared enough, wasn’t kitten‑proofed enough. She was doing everything she could with what she had, but the environment failed her.
A preventable tragedy unfolded. One of her kittens died — not from illness, not from fate, but from negligence. Someone didn’t secure the space. Someone didn’t remove the danger. Someone didn’t protect what needed protecting.
Her grief was quiet, but unmistakable. Her fear was palpable. Her loss was preventable.
She became the shadowed hinge of the week — the moment where my hope wavered, where discouragement rose, where the fear of preventable failure surfaced.
She mirrored the part of me that wondered whether my work, my calling, my business, my boundaries were slipping away. She mirrored the fear that something I was building could be harmed by someone else’s carelessness.
Her presence carried a truth I didn’t want to face: Not everything survives. But the cycle continues.
And the wild responded.
The Coopers Hawk Nest — Continuance After Loss
The next morning, the Cooper’s hawk male appeared at Jewell Wetlands — sharp, deliberate, unmistakably present. He flew low, calling loudly, leading me across the wetlands with a precision that felt intentional.
And then he revealed it — a new nest. A successful nest. A nest with babies. A nest I didn’t know existed. The pair hadn’t failed. They had moved. They had rebuilt. They had adapted. They had succeeded somewhere else.
Their message was direct: What died in one place lived in another. The cycle continues.
It was the first sign that the week would not collapse under the weight of Monday’s grief. The hawks were showing me that continuation is not always visible at first — sometimes it happens in places you haven’t reached yet.
The Catbird Call — The Message Present but Unseen
On Wednesday, the field shifted again.
At Bluff Lake, I heard the catbird call — sharp, insistent, familiar. I had heard it for months, echoing through wetlands and parks, always present, never visible. It was a voice without a body, a message without a face.
Its presence carried a truth I didn’t yet understand: The message is present, but not yet visible.
Continuation often begins in sound before it becomes sight. The unseen often speaks before it reveals itself. The catbird was the first whisper of clarity — the beginning of a revelation that would not arrive until the end of the week.
Fairmount Cemetery, the Squirrels, & the Bald Eagle
The Juvenile Cooper's Hawks, the Squirrels Approach, The Eagle Softens, the Flies bring Clarity
The Cooper’s Hawk Juveniles — Lineage Returning
On Thursday, the field opened wide.
At Fairmount Cemetery, two Cooper’s hawk juveniles — this year’s hatch — perched together, flying together, hunting together, vocalizing together, just like last years pair. They moved with the confidence of birds who knew their territory, who knew their lineage, who knew their place in the world.
They led me deeper into the cemetery, their calls sharp, their presence electric. Their bodies were still young, but their instincts were ancient.
Juvenile hawks symbolize continuation — the cycle repeating, lineage rising, instinct passing from one generation to the next. Their presence was not casual. It was ceremonial.
Their message was unmistakable: The cycle did not break. It continued. They were the living proof that continuation is not theoretical — it is embodied.
The Swainson’s Hawk — The Long Movement
Later that day, a Swainson’s hawk flew low overhead — the bird of migration, identity shift, and long‑distance transformation.
Swainson’s hawks do not appear when life is stable. They appear when the soul is moving. His presence carried a deeper truth: Your identity is shifting. Let the movement continue.
He was the long arc of the week — the reminder that continuation is not a single moment, but a journey. He marked the part of the week where the message expanded beyond grief and lineage into transformation.
The Squirrels — Approach and Familiarity
At City Park, the field softened.
Squirrels approached me with the same confidence they show near my home — dozens of them, moving close, watching, engaging, as if recognizing me. Their presence was playful, curious, unafraid.
Squirrels symbolize grounding, territory, and familiarity returning after uncertainty. Their sudden abundance was not random. It was relational.
Their message was gentle: You are not lost. You are still known by the land. They were the soft continuation — the reminder that even in weeks of grief and pressure, connection persists.
The Eagle Softening — Recognition and Trust
On Friday, the field deepened.
At the sanctuary, the bald eagle softened — not in a dramatic way, but in a subtle, unmistakable shift. No crazy eyes. No lunging. No tension.
She watched me with awareness, not fear. She allowed me into her space. She allowed me to place her food. She allowed me to exist in her territory without disruption.
Her presence carried a truth I needed: Your energy is recognized. Your presence is trusted. Continue.
Even the male eagle flipped — his tension rising while hers dissolved — marking the shift in my own field. The wild was responding to me, not just appearing near me.
The Flies — Pressure Before Clarity
By Friday and Saturday, the flies arrived — relentless, insistent, swarming. They were not symbolic softness. They were pressure. Agitation. Discomfort.
Flies appear when something old is dying, when something stagnant is breaking apart, when the field is shifting and the body feels it before the mind does.
Their message was blunt: The old cycle is resisting the shift. Keep going.
They were the pressure before clarity — the discomfort that precedes revelation. They marked the part of the week where the field tightened, where the old cycle pushed back, where the body felt the shift before the mind understood it.
And revelation was coming.
The Juvenile Catbird Reveals its Voice
The Alter of Continuance and the Soul Lesson
The Catbird Revealing Itself — The Final Continuance
On Saturday — after the mama cat’s grief, after the cooper’s hawk juveniles, after the Swainson’s hawk, after the bald eagle, after the flies — the juvenile catbird finally revealed itself at Cherry Creek.
Calling loudly. Standing openly. Showing itself fully.
The call I had heard for months finally had a body. The voice finally had a face. The message finally had a form. Its presence carried the culmination of the week: The truth you’ve been hearing is now visible. The message continues.
The catbird was the final seal — the moment where the unseen became seen, where the call became identity, where the continuation became clarity.
The Altar of Continuance
By the end of the week, the pattern was unmistakable. This was not a series of sightings. This was not coincidence. This was not randomness. This was an altar — not built in feathers or fire, but in continuance.
An altar assembled through repetition, through lineage, through recognition, through pressure, through the exact moments when discouragement rose and the wild stepped forward again.
The mama cat carried grief. The hawk nest carried renewal. The catbird call carried presence. The hawk juveniles carried lineage. The Swainson’s hawk carried movement. The squirrels carried familiarity. The eagle carried recognition. The flies carried pressure. The catbird carried clarity.
Together they formed a living altar — a constellation of messengers who appeared exactly when the field felt heavy, each one carrying a different facet of the same truth: Hope does not collapse. It continues.
This was choreography — the kind that reveals itself only when the unseen is speaking through creation. This was ceremony — the wild gathering itself around me in a unified voice. This was God in the Wild — not whispering once, but speaking repeatedly.
The animals were not appearing randomly. They were assembling — each one stepping forward at the exact moment the message needed to continue.
The Soul Lesson — The Grace of Continuance
Looking back, the thread is clear.
Every messenger carried a different facet of the same truth — a truth I would not have recognized without the wild speaking through so many bodies, so many symbols, so many perfectly timed encounters.
Grief surfaced. Pressure rose. Lineage returned. Movement continued. Recognition deepened. Clarity emerged.
This week was not collapse. It was continuation — the kind that arrives through repetition, through persistence, through the wild refusing to let the message fade.
The Grace of Continuance is not loud. It does not shout. It does not arrive in a single moment.
It arrives through sequences, through patterns, through the quiet insistence of the wild saying: Do not give up. The cycle continues. The message continues. You continue.
Continuance is not the absence of grief. It is the survival of meaning through it.
This is the Grace of Continuance — the grace that reminds you that even when something breaks, even when something is lost, even when discouragement rises, the wild will keep speaking until you understand: Hope does not collapse. It continues.
God in the Wild: Grace of Instruction
The Week the Wild Shifted from Presence to Teaching through Hawks and Eagles
Opening: When the Field Turns Into a Teacher
Some weeks in the wild do not simply unfold — they instruct. They gather themselves around you, not as scattered encounters, but as a sequence of lessons. They do not appear to decorate the landscape. They appear to guide you. They appear to initiate you. They appear to show you what you are becoming.
These are the weeks when the land stops being scenery and becomes curriculum. When the animals stop being sightings and become instructors. When the field stops being quiet and begins to speak in a language older than thought.
This was one of those weeks.
A week shaped by lineage — the kind that passes itself forward through instinct and flight. A week shaped by recognition — the kind that arrives through the eyes of a sovereign bird. A week shaped by trust — the kind that cannot be forced, only earned. A week shaped by return — the kind that proves skill does not disappear even when time passes.
A week shaped by repetition — the kind that confirms a message by showing it twice. A week shaped by rain — the kind that signals the field is preparing to reveal something deeper. A week shaped by the quiet pressure of something rising — something that felt like initiation.
The wild was not whispering. It was teaching.
And it began with the Cooper’s hawks.
The Cooper’s Hawks — The First Lesson in Lineage
At Jewell Wetlands, the sky felt wide enough to hold instruction. The air carried that charged stillness that appears right before a lesson begins — not dramatic, not loud, but unmistakably present. The Cooper’s hawk male appeared first, slicing through the open space with the sharp, deliberate movements of a bird who knows exactly what he is doing.
He wasn’t hunting. He wasn’t patrolling. He was teaching.
His flight had intention — the kind of intention that comes from lineage, from instinct, from the ancient responsibility of passing knowledge forward. He moved with precision, tracing arcs through the wetlands, diving in and out of the trees, demonstrating the mechanics of flight in real time.
And the fledgling followed.
He was loud — gloriously loud — vocalizing with that raw, unfiltered sound juveniles make when they are learning the world. It is not a cry. It is not a call. It is the sound of becoming. The sound of effort. The sound of instinct rising into form. The sound of a young hawk trying to understand the sky.
His voice echoed across the wetlands, bouncing off the trees, filling the open space with the unmistakable sound of learning. He followed the male through the air, sometimes clumsy, sometimes brilliant, always trying. His wings caught the wind unevenly, his turns were wide, his dives hesitant — but he kept going.
It was lineage in motion. Inheritance unfolding. Instruction embodied.
The field was not simply hosting birds. It was hosting a lesson.
And the lesson was this: Watch how the wild teaches its young. Watch how lineage passes itself forward. Watch how instinct becomes skill. Watch how becoming begins.
The fledgling’s voice carried the emotional tone of the week — effort, vulnerability, courage, and the willingness to try again. It was the first chapter of initiation.
It was the beginning of the week’s altar.
The Bald Eagle & The Harris' Hawk
The Bald Eagle — The Sovereign Lesson in Recognition
Later that day, the lesson deepened.
At the raptor sanctuary, the bald eagle waited on her hood — her sovereign perch, her elevated claim, her chosen throne. She was not in a neutral posture. She was in a position of authority, watching the world from a height she had earned.
And she let me approach.
I moved in from the left first, watching her shift toward me, not in threat but in assessment. Her eyes tracked my movements with that sharp, intelligent awareness only eagles possess — the kind that sees everything, the kind that decides everything.
When she paused, I paused. When she held her ground, I adjusted mine.
So I tried the right side instead, speaking softly the way I always do with her, letting her know exactly what I was doing. She stayed on the hood, steady and alert, her eyes following every movement with a kind of sovereign curiosity.
When I finally ducked under — entering her space, her height, her authority — she leaned forward, watching me with a sharp, curious intelligence. Not aggression. Not warning. Just recognition.
She let me place her food beneath her. She let me move in her shadow. She let me exist inside her sovereign circle. This was not tolerance. This was permission.
When I reached for the old food with the broom, she surged halfway — a quick, decisive motion — but she stopped herself before crossing the line. She allowed me one piece, held her claim on the second, and made the boundary unmistakable.
The humans nearby had their interpretations — curiosity, boundary, preference — but her behavior was the only truth that mattered.
She didn’t lunge at me. She didn’t strike. She didn’t rupture the moment. She chose restraint. She chose curiosity. She chose to let me in.
This was not a bird tolerating me. This was a sovereign creature acknowledging me. Her message was clear: I see you. I know your presence. You may enter my space.
This was the second lesson — the lesson of recognition.
The Harris Hawk — The Lesson in Returning Skill
After nearly five weeks, I returned to the Harris hawk — the bird who requires precision, calm, and confidence. I expected rust. I expected difficulty. I expected hesitation.
But the wild had other plans.
I picked him up. I tied the knot. I did the swivel. I did the weight. I didn’t hit his tail. I didn’t lose my skill. He responded with steadiness — no bating, no disruption, no resistance. He accepted my hands, my movements, my presence. His body stayed calm, his wings stayed folded, his posture stayed balanced.
It was continuity. It was competence. It was return.
And then the human noise arrived — the abrupt comment, the sharpness that cut through the moment, the confusion of being told to stop speaking when I was narrating, something previously encouraged.
But the hawk was the truth. The hawk was the message. The hawk was the teacher. Humans can be inconsistent. The wild is not. The Harris hawk showed me what mattered: Your skill remains. Your connection remains. Your instinct remains. Your progress remains.
This was the third lesson — the lesson of return.
The Flash Flood, the Red-Tailed Hawks and the Soul Lesson
The Rain — The Elemental Lesson
On Saturday, the sky shifted.
Rain arrived not as softness, but as pressure — the kind of rain that feels like a prelude, the kind that carries weight, the kind that signals the field is preparing to reveal something deeper. It fell in sheets, heavy and insistent, saturating the ground, darkening the sky, pressing the air into a kind of elemental tension.
It was the rain that became a flash flood within minutes. It was the rain that marked the threshold. It was the rain that said: instruction is not gentle; it is elemental.
The wild was building toward something. The week was gathering itself. The lessons were not finished. The rain was the fourth lesson — the lesson of saturation.
The Red‑Tails — The Confirmation Lesson
On Sunday, the field opened again.
Two red‑tail hawks — an adult and a juvenile — appeared in the sky, mirroring the Cooper’s hawks from Friday. The adult led. The juvenile followed. The fledgling vocalized, just like the Cooper’s hawk fledgling. The adult demonstrated flight, just like the Cooper’s hawk male.
It was repetition. It was confirmation. It was the field saying: You are being taught too. The lesson is not random. The pattern is intentional. The wild is instructing you.
Two species. Two days. Two sets of juveniles learning to fly. This was not coincidence. This was choreography. The red‑tails were the fifth lesson — the lesson of repetition.
The Altar of Instruction — The Week That Assembled Itself
By the end of the week, the pattern was unmistakable. This was not a series of sightings. This was not random wildlife. This was not casual presence. This was an altar — assembled through lineage, through recognition, through return, through repetition, through rain, through flight, through restraint.
The Cooper’s hawks taught lineage. The bald eagle taught sovereignty. The Harris hawk taught return. The rain taught saturation. The red‑tails taught confirmation. Together they formed a single message: Instruction is rising. Initiation is underway. You are being taught. You are being recognized. You are being prepared.
The wild was not simply appearing. It was teaching.
The Soul Lesson — Initiation
Looking back, the thread is clear.
Every creature carried a different facet of the same truth — a truth I would not have recognized without the wild speaking through so many bodies, so many symbols, so many perfectly timed encounters.
The Cooper’s hawks showed how lineage teaches. The bald eagle showed how sovereignty recognizes. The Harris hawk showed how skill returns. The rain showed how pressure builds. The red‑tails showed how confirmation arrives.
This week was not coincidence. It was initiation.
The wild was saying: You are ready for the next level. You are ready for deeper instruction. You are ready for recognition. You are ready for trust. You are ready for flight.
This is God in the Wild — not whispering, but teaching.
This is the week the land became a classroom.
This is the week instruction rose.
This is the week initiation began.
God in the Wild: Grace of Moral Clarity
The Week the Wild Tested My Compassion and Revealed My Moral Line
Opening: When the Wild Stops Being Beautiful and Starts Being Honest
Some weeks in the wild arrive softly — through feathers, fledglings, and gentle signs that feel like blessings. Others arrive through rupture — through cruelty, grief, confrontation, and the unmistakable moment where the land stops being comforting and becomes clarifying.
These are the weeks that don’t just show you animals. They show you yourself. They show you what you stand for. They show you what you cannot participate in. They show you the exact line between who you are and who you refuse to become.
Last Friday began one of those weeks — a week shaped by trust, cruelty, grief, and a final moment of witness that broke me open and revealed the truth I had been circling for months. It began in a place meant to protect the wild, but where I would soon learn that not all protection is holy, and not all caretaking is compassionate.
It was a week where every encounter — every bird, every injury, every death — carried a message, a mirror, a moral threshold. This was the week the wild tested my compassion. This was the week God clarified my moral line. This was the week I learned that clarity sometimes arrives through heartbreak.
The Eagle — The First Altar of Trust
When I arrived at the sanctuary last Friday, they let me go in with the female bald eagle alone — something they now trust me to do — which I do not take lightly. It is an honor to be in her mews, to feed her, to tend to her needs, to be allowed into the presence of a bird whose sovereignty fills the entire space. Even if I am confusing to her, even if she would prefer I keep my distance, she still permits my presence.
She watched me with those intense, unblinking eyes, the kind that see straight through you. I placed her food, picked up her leftovers, and stayed beneath her hood without approaching her, exactly as instructed. She let me move freely in her space, let me work beneath her perch, let me exist within her territory without tension.
She let me. She allowed me in her space. She watched, but she did not react. She recognized me.
Eagles do not give trust lightly. They do not tolerate proximity without permission. They do not allow vulnerability without recognition. Her acceptance was not casual — it was ceremonial. It felt like an initiation, like a threshold, like the wild acknowledging my presence not as an intruder but as someone who belonged.
Her acceptance was the first altar of the week — the altar of trust. It was the wild saying: You belong with us. You are seen. You are allowed.
I didn’t know yet that this moment of trust would be the opening to a week of moral confrontation — a week where trust would be contrasted with cruelty so sharply it would carve truth into me.
The Rough Legged Hawk — The Altar of Mortality
The rough legged hawk was grounded — not perched, not alert, not herself. She is twenty‑seven years old, ancient for her species, and she has never liked me. She always hackled when I entered her mews — a sign of aggression, a sign of sovereignty, a sign of her refusal to be approached. Her hackle was her identity, her boundary, her declaration of self.
But that day, she didn’t hackle. She didn’t posture. She didn’t react. She just looked at me.
It was wrong. It was alarming. It was the kind of stillness that carries truth — the kind that says something inside has shifted, something essential has weakened, something final is approaching.
Later, after X‑rays, they found obstructions in her stomach — blockages she could not pass. They tried medications. They tried interventions. Nothing worked. On Thursday, they euthanized her. Twenty‑seven years of sovereignty ended in a quiet, necessary mercy.
Her decline was the second altar — the altar of mortality. It was the wild saying: Not everything can be saved. Not everything is yours to carry.
Her stillness stayed with me — a reminder that even the fiercest beings eventually soften into vulnerability, and that witnessing that vulnerability is part of loving the wild.
Animal Cruelty & the Rupture of the Soul
The Cruelty — The Altar of Rupture
I had known for months that some volunteers occasionally killed squirrels for casting — one using a pellet gun, another using water. I hated it. I hated the casualness. I hated the justification. I hated the savagery disguised as necessity. But the sanctuary operated on a tight budget, and food shortages were common, so I detached from it. I swallowed it. I tolerated it. I told myself it wasn’t my place.
But last Friday, the truth sharpened.
I made the mistake of asking whether they ever used breeder rabbits — the ones euthanized when they aren’t suitable for their intended purpose. I asked if humane CO₂ boxes were used. Instead of reassurance, I was met with a dismissive laugh and an offhand comment that made my stomach drop.
The method described was blunt-force — a quick strike meant to end life fast, but one that often doesn’t. A blow to the back of the head, near the spine, delivered while the rabbit is terrified and trying to escape. And if the first strike doesn’t kill, more follow. It was explained casually, as if this was simply how things were done when resources were limited.
And in that moment, a question rose in me — sharp, unwelcome, unavoidable: Is this what falconry is? Is this what I’ve stepped into? Is this the part no one talks about?
I couldn’t tell if I was being naïve, or if I was witnessing a version of falconry shaped by scarcity rather than ethics. I didn’t want to believe that all falconers were this way — that cruelty was woven into the foundation. But I also couldn’t ignore what I was seeing. It forced a choice: either I accept this, or I refuse it. Either I participate, or I walk away.
I felt sick. I felt furious. I felt the rupture — the moment where your soul says: This is not my path. This is not my lineage. This is not who I am.
Then came the Mississippi kite — the one who likes me, the one I hand‑feed, the one who trusts me. We had only four waxworms left. I was told I could go outside and catch grasshoppers or dragonflies to add to her meal if I wanted to, a suggestion offered casually, as if gathering wild insects were no different than scooping feed from a bin.
Dragonflies. My friends. My cats coming back to see me. My sacred ones.
I stared, unable to speak. Something in me recoiled — not in anger, but in recognition of a line I would not cross. I said nothing. I simply said we had four waxworms, and was told that would be enough.
I gave the kite the four waxworms we had left. She accepted them with vigor.
I left the sanctuary raw, grieving, furious, disillusioned. I cried over a squirrel hit by a car. I cried over the cruelty humans inflict without thought. I cried over the disconnect between loving animals and harming them.
And in that grief, I understood something deeper: Animals run from us because we have earned their fear. We have taught them that proximity is danger, that humans bring harm, that our presence is a risk. Their avoidance is not instinct alone — it is memory. It is history. It is survival.
I thought that was the end of it. It wasn’t.
The Return — The Cruelty Continues
The following week, I returned to the sanctuary.
The eagle trusted me again. The time I spend with her is sacred to me. I understand her — in so many ways, I am her. With humans keeping me on edge when they encroach on my personal space, I understand her need for distance.
Her anger, her quick temper, her intensity — I recognize all of it. My temper is still my curse, and each week she teaches me how to show restraint without losing myself, how to hold sovereignty without collapsing into reaction.
My time with the Harris hawk — the king of patience — grounded me too. He squawked at me as I kept walking by him; my mentor said it meant he liked me, that he felt comfortable enough to yell at me for food. I sensed that too, and hearing it confirmed was beautiful. It reminded me that connection with the wild is possible even in places where cruelty exists, that trust can still form in the cracks of discomfort.
But then the cruelty returned.
They use sticky traps for mice. I hate sticky traps. I hate the suffering. I hate the panic. I hate the slow death — if they even die on the trap, which often they do not. The struggle, the fear, the desperate attempts to escape — it is agony disguised as pest control.
Two young mice were stuck to one — still alive. They were put in the fridge, not the freezer. The fridge. A slow death. A cold suffocation. A cruelty framed as necessity, but one that still felt like harm, still felt like a betrayal of the small lives caught in the glue.
Then outside, a volunteer nearly threw a rock at a rabbit — an attempt to kill it for casting. She couldn’t make the shot. Thank God she couldn’t make the shot. The moment was quick, almost careless, but it carried a weight that settled in my chest — a reminder of how easily harm can be justified when necessity is used as a shield.
I stood there thinking: No wonder animals run from us. No wonder the wild fears us. No wonder cruelty follows humans like a shadow. We have forgotten that every creature feels, fears, suffers, and tries to live. We have forgotten that life is sacred even when it is small, even when it is inconvenient, even when it is not ours.
I left the sanctuary shaken — carrying the weight of every creature harmed in the name of convenience, every moment where necessity was used to justify suffering, every place where compassion had been replaced with expedience.
Compassion and the Wild as the Soul Witness
The Squirrel — The Altar of Compassion
Then Saturday morning, a squirrel came to my patio — slow, injured, limping on a back paw, tail bloodied. He sat on the fence line, eating gently, carefully, painfully. I watched him. I brought ice for the water bowl. I tried to approach him when the others left to see if I could help him by taking him to a rehab facility.
He jumped to the tree. He was chased off by another squirrel. He disappeared. I couldn’t find him again.
My heart broke. My instinct rose. My compassion surged.
This was the wild saying: You are the one who tries to help. You are the one who moves toward suffering. You are the one who refuses cruelty. You are the one who sees pain and does not turn away.
His small, injured body was a reminder that compassion is not abstract — it is lived, it is practiced, it is embodied in the moments where you choose care over convenience.
The Magpie — The Altar of Witness
Driving up Parker Road, I saw four magpies eating carrion. I slowed so they could move. As I drove off, they converged on the carrion again, but the light had changed and one didn’t move fast enough. A car hit him. I saw him bounce off the grill.
My mouth dropped in horror. I turned around immediately and flipped a U‑turn. I ran the red light to get to him before light changed again and traffic resumed.
His friend was calling — frantic, distressed, confused — asking why he wasn’t moving. Why he wasn’t responding. Why he wasn’t getting up.
I put on my hazards. I grabbed my gloves. I went to him. He was already gone.
I moved him to the median — safe from traffic, safe from further harm. His friend followed, squawking, grieving, calling out in confusion.
I told him: I’m sorry your friend is gone. You’re safe here. You can stay with him. You can leave. You can do what you need to do to find peace. He stayed as I left.
I drove away sobbing — not just for the magpie, but for the cruelty of humans, for the negligence, for the savagery, for the suffering, for the disconnect between loving animals and harming them.
This was the final altar — the altar of witness.
It was the wild saying: You are the one who stops. You are the one who sees. You are the one who honors. You are the one who refuses cruelty. You are the one who carries compassion even when it hurts.
Closing: The Grace of Moral Clarity
Looking back, the thread is unmistakable.
The eagle offered trust. The rough legged hawk revealed mortality. The cruelty exposed truth. The squirrel showed compassion. The magpie demanded witness.
None of it was random. None of it was casual. None of it was coincidence.
This was God in the Wild — speaking through suffering, through trust, through grief, through confrontation, through the exact moments that force a soul to choose who it is.
This was the week God said: You will not kill for convenience. You will not harm for casting. You will not participate in cruelty. You will not abandon your ethics for belonging. You will not become what breaks your heart.
And equally: You will protect. You will witness. You will honor. You will stop traffic. You will move bodies. You will comfort the living. You will grieve the dead. You will stand for compassion even when it hurts.
This was the week the wild tested my compassion. This was the week God revealed my moral line. This was the week I understood who I am — and who I refuse to become.
This is God in the Wild — not gentle, but true. This is the Grace of Moral Clarity. This is the week the wild confronted cruelty and called me forward.
God in the Wild: Grace of Recognition
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The Bald Eagle Who Recognized Me
Some moments in the wild arrive quietly — not through feathers or flight, but through a single sentence spoken in passing, a sentence that opens a door you didn’t know you needed to walk through.
Yesterday, at the raptor sanctuary, we were getting ready to leave when someone asked one of the long‑time volunteers which bird was her favorite, and why. She has been there over thirteen years — long enough to know every bird’s history, every wound, every quirk, every boundary. Her answer came without hesitation, as if the truth had been waiting on her tongue.
She said her favorite was the ferruginous hawk — the one who doesn’t like anyone, the one who charges most people, the one who still carries the imprint of being a one‑person falconry bird. She had only ever trusted one handler in her life, and even now, years later, she still guards herself fiercely.
But this volunteer said, “I understand her. I get her.” And she meant it. She said the hawk took to her faster than she took to anyone else, and that recognition — that shared understanding — meant everything. It wasn’t affection; it was alignment. It wasn’t ease; it was resonance. It was two beings with similar wounds recognizing each other across species.
We didn’t get to go around the circle and share our own answers. We had to leave. But her words stayed with me. They followed me out of the mews, into the parking lot, into my car, into my night. They echoed in the quiet, asking a question I could feel in my chest.
Who is that bird for me? Who is the one I understand? Who is the one whose wounds mirror mine? Who is the one who teaches me something about myself every time I step into her world?
The answer rose immediately, without hesitation, without doubt. The female bald eagle. My eagle. The one who recognizes me. The one I recognize.
The Eagle’s Story — The Wound Beneath the Wings
She is not a typical bald eagle. She is not a bird raised in the wild, not a bird who learned the sky from her parents, not a bird who grew up knowing the rules of her species. She was stolen from her nest as an eaglet — taken by people who wanted her, not for her sovereignty, but for their own fascination.
They kept her until she grew too big, too wild, too inconvenient. And then they let her go, as if she were an object that had outlived its novelty. She didn’t know how to hunt. She didn’t know how to be an eagle. She only knew people.
So she went to campgrounds and stole food from humans because humans were all she had ever known. She survived the only way she could. Eventually she was picked up by a rehab, and they tried to release her again, but she repeated the same pattern — approaching people, seeking food, losing weight, losing strength, losing the wildness she never had the chance to learn. She was a bird caught between worlds — too human to be wild, too wild to be human.
It took multiple agencies, across state lines, under much angst and stress, to get her to the sanctuary where she lives now. My mentor was involved in the process. It was not easy. It was not simple. It was not smooth. But she made it here, carried by the determination of people who understood that her story was not her fault.
And now she is a bird who trusts very few humans.
She charges. She guards. She watches. She protects her space with the intensity of someone who has been violated before. She defends her boundaries with the ferocity of someone who has learned that humans are unpredictable.
She is sovereign. She is wounded. She is angry. She is afraid. She is magnificent. And I understand her.
The Mirror — Why She Is My Bird
I understand her because I know what it feels like to have your boundaries violated. I know what it feels like to have your personal space invaded. I know what it feels like to be raised in environments that didn’t protect you.
I know what it feels like to be angry because anger is the only thing that ever kept you safe. I know what it feels like to want to lash out when someone gets too close. I know what it feels like to be misunderstood because your fear looks like aggression. My temper is my curse. Her temper is her shield. And somehow, in the middle of all that fire, we recognize each other.
She is not gentle with me. She is not soft. She is not easy. But she allows me. And that is everything.
There is something sacred about being understood by a creature who owes you nothing. Something holy about being recognized by a being who has every reason to reject you. Something profound about seeing your own wounds reflected in the eyes of an eagle who has survived more than most humans ever will.
The Eagle's Hood and the Moment of Recognition
The Initiation — Being Signed Off for Solo Husbandry
This week, I was officially signed off to go into her mews alone — to do full husbandry at the sanctuary without supervision. It is not a casual milestone. It is not a simple checkbox. It is an initiation. It is a recognition. It is a statement: You are trusted. You are capable. You are allowed. You belong here.
I went in alone with her again yesterday. And it felt like stepping into a sacred space — not because she is fragile, but because she is sovereign. Her mews is her world, her territory, her sanctuary, her domain. To be allowed inside it is a privilege, a responsibility, a ceremony.
I started the day with bird check — how is everyone doing, how does everyone look? Then pick‑up. Then waters. Then cleaning. She typically waits until drop‑off for her leftover's pickup, so I left her area for last.
However, during the water refresh, I got most of her leftovers. She watched me the entire time — those intense, unblinking eyes that see straight through you. She let me stay for twenty minutes. She let me give her a shower with the hose. She let me exist in her space without tension. She let me move around her mews, in her sovereign space.
She let me. That is the miracle.
There is no greater honor at the sanctuary than being allowed to stay by a bird who trusts almost no one. It is not affection. It is not softness. It is recognition — the kind that arrives slowly, cautiously, deliberately, like a door opening one inch at a time.
The Hood — The Moment of Recognition
When it was time to drop off her food, she went to her hood — her coveted spot, the place where she feels safest. She gets food‑aggressive, so we hide her food behind our backs until we’re at her hood – the food gets placed on a stump underneath it.
I tried to go under from the left. She started to charge. I backed off. She stopped.
I tried from the right. She started to charge again. I backed off. She stopped.
Then I said, gently but clearly, “Do you want to eat?”
She looked at me — not with softness, but with recognition. With awareness. With understanding.
I said, “Okay. Good. I’m going under to give you your food.” And she let me.
She let me go under the hood. She let me place her food. She let me pick up the rest of her leftovers. She let me leave without incident.
She ate. She hasn’t been eating much lately while we are there, but she ate. She loves squirrels — even though preparing them breaks my heart — and I know exactly which parts she prefers, so I gave her those.
She accepted them. She accepted me.
There are moments in the wild that feel like thresholds — moments where something shifts, something opens, something aligns. This was one of them. This was the moment she recognized me not as a threat, not as an intruder, but as someone who understood her boundaries and honored them.
Why I Stay — The Answer to Last Week’s Cruelty
Last week was the week of moral clarity — the week of cruelty, rupture, and grief. The week where I questioned everything: falconry, casting, necessity, ethics, belonging. The week where I wondered whether I could stay in a place where suffering sometimes hides behind practicality.
But she is why I stay.
She is the reason I return. She is the reason I endure. She is the reason I choose compassion even when the environment around me falters. She is the reason I keep learning, keep trying, keep detaching, keep softening, keep growing.
She teaches me restraint. She teaches me sovereignty. She teaches me boundaries. She teaches me trust. She teaches me how to hold my anger without letting it consume me.
She is my bird. My mirror. My teacher. My altar.
There is cruelty in the world — I saw it last week. But there is also recognition, trust, and alignment. And sometimes one bird is enough to anchor you through the storm.
Closing: The Grace of Recognition
Looking back, the thread is unmistakable.
A volunteer spoke about the ferruginous hawk — the bird she understands, the bird who recognizes her, the bird whose wounds mirror her own. And her words opened a door inside me.
Because I know who that bird is for me.
It is the bald eagle — the one who was stolen, abandoned, misunderstood, and forced to survive in human spaces. The one who guards her boundaries with fire. The one who charges when she is afraid. The one who trusts almost no one.
And yet she lets me in. This is not coincidence. This is not routine. This is not casual.
This is God in the Wild — speaking through sovereignty, through fear, through recognition, through the exact moments where two wounded beings meet and choose trust anyway.
This is the Grace of Recognition — the grace of being seen by a creature who owes you nothing, the grace of being allowed into a world that is not yours, the grace of learning restraint from a bird who has every reason to defend herself.
This is the eagle who recognized me. This is the bird who teaches me who I am. This is the reason I stay.
God in the Wild: Grace of Release
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When the Wild Says It’s Time to Move On
Some weeks in the wild arrive like a slow tide — one sign at a time, one messenger at a time, one truth at a time. And then there are weeks like this one, where the field speaks in a chorus. Hawks, deer, squirrels, butterflies, magpies, rabbits, full moons, rainbows — all appearing in a sequence so unmistakable that the meaning becomes impossible to ignore.
This was not coincidence. This was not randomness. This was not scattered symbolism. This was a single message delivered through many beings: It is time to move on. It is time to release what no longer chooses the soul. It is time to step into the next chapter.
And when the wild speaks in patterns this dense, this layered, this insistent, it is because the soul has reached a threshold it can no longer ignore. The field was gathering, preparing, aligning — and the message was unmistakable: Release.
This is the Grace of Release — the grace that arrives when the wild says the door long waited for is not the door meant to open. The grace that arrives when the field shows the truth that has been avoided. The grace that arrives when the animals gather around a life and say, gently but unmistakably, “Let go.”
Release is not abandonment. Release is not failure. Release is the moment the soul stops carrying what was never meant to be held. And the wild was ready to teach that lesson.
The First Messenger — The Swainson’s Hawk Who Started the Shift
It began with a Swainson’s hawk on the Windsor trail — close, deliberate, unmistakable, perched on a fence post. By mid to late September, Swainsons in Colorado are preparing to migrate to Argentina; most have already begun their long departure.
To see one that close, that late in the season, is never casual. It is a final messenger — a last appearance before a cycle ends. Swainsons appear at thresholds, at turning points, at the moment a life is preparing to shift direction. They do not linger without purpose.
Swainsons never appear without purpose. They are identity messengers, direction messengers, path shifters. They show up when a chapter is ending and a new one is forming. They appear when the soul is standing at the edge of a decision it has not yet admitted. They appear when the field is preparing to rearrange itself around a new truth. Their timing is precise, their symbolism unmistakable.
On that same day, squirrels were running up the trail — dozens of them, approaching without hesitation. Squirrels are inner‑child archetypes, flexibility teachers, reminders to loosen the grip. They appear when the soul is too rigid, too afraid, too clenched around an outcome.
Together, the hawk and the squirrels formed the first message: Identity is shifting. Rigidity is softening. Something is about to move. The field had begun speaking, and it would not stop.
The Turkey and the Rainbow — Grounding Before the Storm
A few days later, a turkey was perched on a fence post at Bluff Lake — grounded, steady, ancient. Turkeys appear when humility is needed, when nourishment is returning, when the soul is being asked to reconnect with what matters. They are reminders of simplicity, of grounding, of returning to the earth when life becomes too heavy. Their presence signals a need for steadiness before change.
That same evening, a massive rainbow arched over Hentzell Park — a full spectrum, a full circle, a full blessing. Rainbows appear when the field is aligning, when protection is present, when the soul is being reassured that the coming shift will be held. Healing was underway. Stabilizing was underway. Grounding was underway. The rainbow was a promise: the storm would not break the spirit.
The turkey and the rainbow were not random. They were preparing the field. They were saying: Strength will be needed. Grounding will be needed. Clarity will be needed. They were the calm before the unraveling, the anchoring before the release. Because the storm was coming, and the wild wanted the soul steady enough to withstand it.
The Monarchs — Returning to the Origin Point
The next day, at Belmar Park, monarch butterflies appeared — many of them, circling, drifting, rising. Monarchs are transformation incarnate. They are cycles, rebirth, return. They show up when old places are revisited with new identity. They appear when the soul is ready to reclaim what was once abandoned, when the past is ready to be integrated rather than avoided.
And the field was near my first apartment — the place where spiritual life was to begin, where early awakenings happened but were ignored, where listening to the wild was to first take root — a place that took two decades to finally hear. Monarchs return when the soul is ready to face the origin point with new eyes, new strength, new truth.
The monarchs were saying: Return to the origin point. Become who was always meant to emerge. The one who arrived at the sanctuary is not the one who stands here now. They were preparing the soul for release — reminding it that transformation is not a single moment, but a cycle that returns again and again until the lesson is complete.
The Magpie, Red-Tailed Hawk, Young Deer and the Squirrels
The Magpie and the Red Tail — Truth and Power Arrive Together
A few days later, a magpie appeared — perched above a pug, both calm, both unbothered. Magpies are truth tellers. They appear when something needs to be confronted, when duality needs acknowledgment, when boundaries need enforcement. They arrive when illusions are thinning, when clarity is rising, when the soul can no longer pretend not to see what is happening.
That evening, a red‑tailed hawk appeared at Expo Park — hunting, then perching, sovereign and steady. Red tails are original teachers. They show up when power needs reclaiming, when identity needs remembering, when shrinking must stop. They appear when the soul is ready to step back into its strength, when sovereignty must be restored.
The magpie and the red tail together said: See the truth. Claim the power. Do not ignore what is happening. Their pairing was deliberate — truth and sovereignty arriving side by side, refusing to be dismissed. And the truth was becoming harder to ignore, pressing against the edges of the soul, demanding acknowledgment.
The Squirrels and the Car — Release Arrives in the Human World
Later that week, squirrels flooded the Windsor trail — dozens of them, approaching, circling, grounding. Squirrels appear when the soul is gripping too tightly, when fear is rising, when control is becoming suffocating. They remind the field to loosen, to soften, to trust the movement rather than resist it.
That same day, my car was put up for sale. No offers. Just ghosting and disappointment. And then the dealership made an offer — and by Saturday, increased it above blue book. Release was happening in the human world too, mirroring the spiritual unraveling. The car — a ten‑year companion — was preparing to leave, signaling the first physical shift in a larger emotional release.
At the sanctuary, my mentor was gone again. The new docent was being trained again. The sidelining continued. But time was spent with the birds in the mews — and at the time, it felt worth it. The squirrels were saying: Let go. Trust the shift. Release what is leaving. The car was the first physical release. The sanctuary would be the second.
The Full Moon — The Emotional Climax
At the end of the week a giant full moon rose at dusk — enormous, luminous, unmistakable. Full moons are release points. They mark endings. They mark completions. They mark the moment when what has been building finally breaks open. This moon was not subtle. It was a spotlight on everything that had been avoided, everything that had been tolerated, everything that had been silently endured.
This moon was the emotional climax of the entire sequence. It was the moon that said: The cycle is ending. Prepare to let go. It illuminated the truth that had been gathering for weeks — the truth the wild had been whispering through every messenger.
And the next day, the red tail returned — perched at Bear Creek Park, light faced, dark bodied, a morph of contrasts. A reminder that power comes in many forms. A reminder that sovereignty is not always loud. The wild was gathering, preparing the soul for the break.
The Car, the Knee, and the Root Chakra — The Body Speaks the Truth
The following week, my car of ten years was traded — and tears came. Release hurts, even when it is right. The loan jumped unexpectedly. Fear rose. The root chakra shook. The foundation wavered. And then the knee popped — cartilage shifting, pain intensifying. The body broke open at the exact moment the emotional truth surfaced.
The body was saying what the soul already knew: Carrying what is breaking the spirit cannot continue. Standing in places that do not support the soul cannot continue. Sacrificing health for doors that will not open cannot continue.
The knee was not random. It was the physical manifestation of release — the moment the body refused to carry what the spirit had already set down. It was the breaking point that clarified everything.
The Deer and the Old Friend — Innocence Returns
The next day, a young deer appeared on the trail — close, gentle, unafraid. Deer appear when innocence returns, when gentleness is needed, when the heart is hurting. They arrive when the soul needs softness, when grief is rising, when tenderness must be restored before a difficult truth lands.
And the moment aligned with a conversation with my oldest friend — the one the original forgiveness story was about. The deer was saying: The heart is softening. The past is healing. Innocence is returning. Release does not harden. Release frees. The deer appeared as a reminder that even in the midst of unraveling, gentleness remains possible.
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The Memorial Tattoo and the First Teachers
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The Tattoo and the Red Tail — Returning to the First Teachers
A few days later, squirrels appeared again — many of them — and a Cooper’s hawk perched on the Windsor trail. That same day, the Bonnie and Clyde dragonfly tattoo was finally completed — honoring my first spiritual animals incarnate, the ones who still visit. They were the first messengers, the first guides, the first beings who arrived when everything was collapsing.
The next tattoo was chosen: a red tail with a squirrel nestled against his chest — the first teachers, the first messengers, the first guides. These were the beings who taught power, softness, and release. The wild was saying: Return to the origin. Return to the first teachers. Return to the power. Because it would be needed. The soul was being prepared for the final break.
The Deer and the Girl Cats — Softening Before the Break
Later in the week, three scared girl cats softened — one allowing closeness. That same day, another young deer appeared at Cherry Creek — gentle, timid, allowing closeness. Deer appear when innocence returns, when gentleness is needed, when the heart must be softened before a difficult truth arrives.
Softening was returning. Gentleness was returning. The heart was opening again. The girl cats mirrored the deer’s message: Open. Soften. Allow. The wild was preparing for the break — ensuring the soul would not shatter when the truth finally landed. The field was cushioning the fall before it happened.
The Harris Hawk and the Bald Eagle — The Final Message
Friday that week, everything converged. Squirrels at home. Squirrels at clients’ houses. Squirrels everywhere — grounding, softening, reminding. The wild was surrounding the soul with softness before the final truth arrived.
At the sanctuary, the Harris' hawk purred — shaking his tail feathers each time I passed — wondering why the pattern had changed, wondering why the connection had been interrupted. It was grief — pure, sharp, undeniable. His confusion revealed the emotional fracture forming in the field.
And the female bald eagle allowed me to clean her pool alone for the first time — watching with intense, unblinking eyes, allowing, permitting, recognizing. But she did not soften. And that was the truth that needed to be seen.
She allows. She recognizes. She teaches. But she does not choose. And the sanctuary does not choose. The wild was saying: This is the moment. This is the release. This is the door closing. This is the truth. The departure was clear.
The Rabbit and the Red Tail — Protection and New Beginnings
At the end of the week, the girl cats softened again — two allowing closeness, one allowing touch. And at Cherry Creek, a red tail dove down — close, deliberate, unmistakable — then flew out into open space. Red tails appear when sovereignty must be reclaimed, when the soul must step into its own power again.
And then, under my new car, a rabbit appeared — calm, safe, unafraid. Rabbits are protection. Rabbits are new beginnings. Rabbits are blessings. The rabbit was saying: Protection is here. Guidance is here. A new chapter is beginning. The red tail confirmed it: Claim your power. Move into the open space. The wild had spoken.
Closing: The Grace of Release
Looking back, the thread is unmistakable. A Swainson’s hawk signaling identity shift. Squirrels softening fear. A turkey grounding. A rainbow blessing. Monarchs returning to origin. A magpie confronting truth. Red tails reclaiming power. Deer restoring innocence. A full moon marking the climax. A rabbit protecting the next chapter. And two raptors — one grieving, one sovereign — delivering the final message.
This wasn’t coincidence. This wasn’t chaos. This wasn’t randomness. This was God in the Wild — speaking through hawks, squirrels, deer, butterflies, magpies, rabbits, moons, rainbows, and the exact moments where the human world cracked open.
This was the Grace of Release — the grace that arrives when the field says, gently but unmistakably, “It is time to move on.” This is the lesson the wild gave. This is the truth finally accepted. This is the grace that sets the soul free.
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Spirit Animal Symbolism
Spirit Animal Symbolism
Spirit Animal Symbolism