Shadowland with Animals

Before the egg, there was the unease.

Before the mother, there was the predator.

Before the live stream, there was the bite.

The black crowned eagle did not arrive as a symbol of grace. She arrived first as shadow—through Rousey, through rupture, through the part of me that recoiled and then returned.

This is how the descent begins: not with clarity, but with contradiction.

Not with comfort, but with confrontation.

There are moments when the soul calls in a messenger so precise, so timely, that it feels like the universe cracked open just enough to let her through. This was one of those moments. 

I had been circling the archetype of the black crowned eagle for over six months, drawn to its power, its precision, its mythic weight. But I hadn’t yet met her in her fullness. Not until now.

African Black Crowned Eagle Symbolism & Archetype Connections

The black crowned eagle is no ordinary raptor. She is myth in motion.

Native to sub-Saharan Africa, she is one of the most powerful forest eagles in the world—capable of hunting monkeys, small antelope, bushbuck, and even coyotes in the United States. But her power is not just physical. It is archetypal. She carries the weight of ancient forests, the silence of canopy, the gaze that sees through illusion.

She is the embodiment of five soul teachings:

Truth-Seeking

Her eyes are made for piercing—not just through branches and prey, but through illusion itself. She sees what others miss: the hidden motives, the buried grief, the stories we tell to survive. Her vision is not passive; it is active revelation. She invites us to strip away the masks, to meet our own gaze, and to name what is true—even when it trembles.

Shadow Mastery

She does not flinch from darkness. She enters it willingly, hunts within it, and emerges crowned. Her talons are not symbols of cruelty—they are instruments of clarity. She teaches that fear is not to be banished, but befriended. To master the shadow is not to conquer it, but to integrate it. She flies with what others flee and shows us how to do the same.

Ancestral Vision

She carries the memory of bone and blood, of nests built high in ancient forests. Her lineage is not just biological—it is mythic. She reminds us that healing is not invented; it is remembered. It lives in the marrow, in the stories passed down, in the instincts we forgot we had. She is the bridge between what was and what might be, calling us to reclaim what is ours.

Fierce Grace

She is both talon and tenderness. She kills to feed, but she also incubates with unwavering devotion. Her grace is not gentle—it is exacting, sovereign, and unapologetic. She teaches that to nurture is not to soften, but to strengthen. That ferocity and care are not opposites, but sacred companions. She is the embodiment of fierce grace—where power bows to love, and love sharpens into truth.

Transformation

She molts. She descends. She rises. Her life is a spiral of shedding and becoming, of rupture and renewal. She teaches that transformation is not a straight line—it is a sacred unraveling. It asks us to lose what no longer fits, to grieve what once protected us, and to trust the unknown shape of what comes next. To encounter her is to encounter the truth of your own becoming.

A nest cam in Zimbali Estate. A female eagle incubating one egg.
The stream began yesterday. I found it today.

I had black crowned eagles on my mind while I was studying falconry—before the Remi bite. Before the descent.

There was something uncanny about the timing. I wasn’t searching for her. I wasn’t even thinking about nest cams, given we are technically off season. But there she was—on my screen, in my field, in my psyche. A mother eagle, still and sovereign, warming a single egg with the kind of presence that felt ancient.

It was as if she had been waiting for me to be ready. And now, I was.

The Memory of Rousey

Rousey unsettled me from the start.
Her falconer hunted with her at night, jack rabbits and coyotes, using a vehicle—headlights slicing through darkness, the eagle perched like a sentinel of something ancient and unnerving. She was precise, powerful, and… wrong.

That is not an eagle, I said aloud.
That eagle has dark energy.

It wasn’t just her presence—it was the way she moved, the way she partnered with machinery, the way she seemed to blur the line between wild and controlled. She didn’t evoke awe. She evoked unease. And yet, I couldn’t look away.

Each weekend, I returned to watch her. Not to judge, but to understand. Something in her was mirroring a part of me I hadn’t yet named. She was the shadow of the eagle—the part that doesn’t soothe, that doesn’t cradle, that doesn’t wait. She was the part that strikes. That guards. That survives.

She was the archetype of the predator—unapologetic, unsoftened, unmasked. She didn’t perform for approval. She didn’t hide her hunger. She hunted in headlights, partnered with steel, and moved through the night like a blade.

And still, I knew she had light.
Just like the Cooper’s hawk—who taught me that even the fiercest beings carry tenderness.
Just like me—who had learned to bite when cornered, to guard when grieving, to survive when softness wasn’t safe.

Rousey was the face of the eagle I wasn’t ready to meet.
She showed me the part of myself that doesn’t ask permission.
The part that doesn’t apologize for being sharp.
The part that knows how to protect what matters—even if it means being misunderstood.

She was not wrong.
She was wild.
And she was mine.

The Shadow Revealed

Now, I meet her again—reborn in the Zimbali mother.
This eagle does not hunt.
She holds. She warms. She waits.

She is the mother I didn’t know I needed to witness.

There is something sacred about watching her. She doesn’t move much. She doesn’t perform. She simply is. And in her stillness, I see a new face of the eagle archetype—one that doesn’t strike, but shelters. One that doesn’t chase, but chooses.

She is the priestess of incubation.
She is the guardian of becoming.
She is the shadow transformed.

The Incubation

Incubation is not passive.
It is sacred labor.
It is the act of trusting what cannot yet be seen.

She teaches me to hold what hurts.
To protect what is becoming.
To honor the stillness between rupture and flight.

There is a kind of courage in waiting. In not rushing the process. In trusting that what is gestating will emerge when it’s ready. 

The Zimbali black crowned eagle mother reminds me that healing is not always dramatic. Sometimes, it is quiet. Sometimes, it is warm. Sometimes, it is a single egg held beneath feathers.

She is showing me how to mother my own transformation.

This eagle is a living message.
She is the embodiment of shadow transformed.

She reminds me:

That discomfort is a doorway

That judgment is often projection

That nurturing is not weakness—it is power

That the shadow is not the enemy—it is the teacher

She is the crowned descent.
She is the soul lesson.
She is the mirror.

She came to me not to be admired, but to be integrated.
She came to show me that the eagle is not just a symbol of flight—it is a symbol of depth. Of descent. Of holding. Of becoming.

Closing Reflection

I met her shadow first—talons sharp, wings cut from storm.
Now I meet her again—not in flight, but in stillness.
She is the mother now. She holds what might become. And I hold her.

This is the beginning of a new chapter in Shadowland with Animals.
The crowned eagle has entered the archive.
She will not be forgotten.

She will be remembered as the one who taught me that shadow is not something to escape—it is something to honor. That transformation is not always loud—it is often quiet. That the eagle is not just a hunter—it is a holder.

And I, too, am becoming.

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Falconry Part 1: Rousey the African Black Crowned Eagle USA

Falconry Part 2: Rousey the African Black Crowned Eagle USA

The Zimbali African Black Crowned Eagle Live Nest Cam

Learn More About Raptor Symbolism

Opening Reflection — The Descent Before the Message

On September 10th, the shadow arrived again. Not through memory, but through sensation. A grief I couldn’t name. A sorrow I didn’t earn. It moved through my chest like fog—dense, invisible, unrelenting.

I tried to shake it. Clean something. Breathe differently. But the ache followed me room to room.

And then came the thud.

I turned the corner and there she was: a juvenile Cooper’s hawk, still and regal, perched on the fence post. She didn’t come to hunt. She came to witness. Her yellow eyes locked on something beyond the moment. Black-capped chickadees fluttered nearby, unbothered. The air held its breath.

Then, in a moment that felt mythic, one of my regular squirrel friends—quick, curious, and bold—jumped up beside her.

And they looked at each other. Not like predator and prey. But like something older. Something sacred. Like soul recognition.

It should have been impossible. But there they were—hawk and squirrel, side by side—holding a gaze that softened the air and cracked something open in me.

It wasn’t fear or awe I felt. It was remembrance.

The Grief Beneath the Date

September 11th had never touched me directly. I didn’t lose anyone. I didn’t even know someone who had. And yet, every year around this time, the sorrow returned. Quiet. Unexplained. Unclaimed.

I had always felt like a fraud for mourning it. For crying when the headlines resurfaced. For carrying its weight in my body without permission.

But standing on the patio, I finally understood.

That day didn’t just take lives. It took something deeper: our sense of safety. Our tribal belief that we were untouchable. That home meant immunity. That borders meant protection.

We lost a collective innocence. And that grief echoed through all of us—whether we named it or not.

The hawk and the squirrel arrived to remind me:
You are not untouched by what touches the world.

And with that, something uncoiled inside me. I realized I’d been clinging to the illusion that safety was found in walls and policies. But true safety? It’s never been out there.

It’s in here.
It’s knowing I can meet the unknown—and still survive.
It’s trusting that I can stand again, even if the ground shakes.

 The Cooper’s hawk is the seer. The one who pierces illusion. The one who arrives when truth must be named—not with violence, but with precision. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t soften her gaze to make the truth palatable. She lands in silence and waits for you to meet her stare.

She didn’t come to fight or flee. She came to reflect. To hold a mirror to the scattered pieces of me. To remind me that clarity doesn’t always roar—it sometimes perches quietly on a fence post and watches you unravel.

Her medicine is vision. Sovereignty. Sacred discernment. She carries the archetype of the truth-teller, the one who sees through masks and memory, the one who arrives when the soul is ready to reckon.

She is the one who says: Look deeper. The wound is older than you think.
She is the one who asks: Are you willing to see what you’ve been avoiding?

In the shadow, the cooper’s hawk can be sharp. Unforgiving. She can slice through denial with talons of insight. But in the light, she is grace embodied—an emissary of soul sight. She doesn’t demand 

transformation. She invites it. And when you’re ready, she shows you the map you’ve been carrying all along.

She is the guardian of thresholds. The one who watches from above as you decide whether to cross. And when you do, she flies ahead—not to lead, but to clear the air.

The squirrel is the inner child. The gatherer. The one who dances between branches and pauses to rest. He carries the medicine of joy in the midst of uncertainty. Of preparation without panic. Of softness as strength.

He is the archetype of delight. Of curiosity. Of instinctual trust. He doesn’t question whether the branch will hold—he leaps. He doesn’t hoard out of fear—he gathers out of rhythm. His wisdom is cyclical, seasonal, and deeply embodied.

His presence beside the cooper’s hawk reminded me to honor both energies inside myself:
The one who soars, and the one who gathers.
The one who sees, and the one who feels.
The one who leads with focus, and the one who laughs under falling leaves.

He is the reminder that survival and joy are not opposites.
They are companions.
They are the inhale and exhale of soul life.

In the shadow, the squirrel can scatter. Over-prepare. Hide. But in the light, he is the keeper of balance. He teaches that play is not frivolous—it is sacred. That rest is not weakness—it is wisdom. That presence is not passive—it is power.

He is the one who says: You don’t have to earn safety. You can feel joy even when the world is trembling.
He is the one who reminds: Your softness is part of your strength.

Together, the cooper’s hawk and the squirrel showed me that healing is not a single path—it is a dance between clarity and comfort, between truth and tenderness, between the sky and the soil.

The cooper’s hawk and the squirrel appearing together was not coincidence. It was choreography. A sacred improvisation between sky and soil. Between instinct and innocence. Between grief and grace.

They didn’t come to teach. They came to remember.

They didn’t come to perform. They came to pierce.

Their gaze was a portal—an invitation to descend into the grief I had long carried but never claimed. A grief that wasn’t personal, but ancestral. Not loud, but lingering. Not linear, but cyclical.

They offered me a map. Not one of escape, but of integration.

• To live in balance—not by erasing the extremes, but by honoring both.
• To release the illusion that safety comes from control—and to reclaim the truth that safety is born from presence.
• To embrace the knowing that resilience is not a performance—it’s a practice. A rhythm. A return.

Their message wasn’t soft. It was sacred.
It said: You can feel collective grief and still laugh.
You can remember a national wound and still be hopeful.
You can miss what was and trust what’s next.

They reminded me that healing is not a straight line. It’s a spiral.
That grief is not weakness. It’s wisdom.
That instinct is not dangerous. It’s divine.

Now, I no longer see my September sadness as irrational.
I see it as inherited.
A soul echo passed down through the collective nervous system.
A thread we all hold, whether we name it or not.

And each year, I honor that thread.
Not with silence, but with ceremony.
Not with shame, but with reverence.

Because safety, I’ve learned, is not about being untouched.
It’s about being deeply touched—and still able to stand.

It’s about meeting the wild in yourself—and choosing not to run.

Closing Reflection — The First Soul Encounter

This was one of my first animal encounters in the Shadowland.
Before Remi. Before the bite. Before the tarot.

The Cooper’s Hawk and Squirrel arrived to prepare me.
To show me that rupture can be sacred.
That grief can be shared.
That instinct can be holy.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t bite.
But they pierced.
And in that stillness, I found the part of me that could grieve without shame—and trust without proof.

This is where the wild truly whispered.
And where reverence became my response.

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The Cooper’s Hawk and The Squirrel Video

Learn more about Cooper’s Hawk Symbolism

Learn more about Squirrel Symbolism

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A friend once told me to bring crystals to the cemetery—to protect myself from whatever energies might linger. I nodded, but inside I thought, I don’t need protection from the dead. I need protection from the living.

The dead don’t ghost you. The dead don’t scroll past your soul work. The dead don’t show up only when it’s convenient, or offer hollow praise when you bare your truth. The dead, in their silence, are often more present than the living.

This realization didn’t arrive all at once. It brewed quietly, like a storm behind the ribs. Over the past year, I’ve been shedding connections—not in anger, but in clarity. I’ve released dozens of people from my digital and emotional orbit. Some were family. Some were colleagues. Some were ghosts in living bodies. 

The pattern was always the same: absence, dismissal, or performance. And I finally stopped translating that into shame.

The Hawk That Watches

Throughout this unraveling, the Cooper’s Hawk kept appearing. In the trees. In my dreams. In the quiet moments when I asked for a sign. It didn’t feel like a coincidence. It felt ancestral.

The Cooper’s Hawk is a stealth hunter. It moves through dense woods with precision, navigating chaos with grace. It doesn’t chase. It waits. It watches. It strikes only when necessary. It’s a boundary keeper. A liminal creature. A soul mirror.

And I began to see it not just as a guide—but as a reflection of my lineage. Not just a symbol of protection, but a witness to the patterns I was finally ready to name.

We Are All the Hawk

My family, in many ways, is the Cooper’s Hawk in shadow. Fiercely independent. Emotionally distant. Quick to speak, slow to listen. Masters of the hasty word, the vanishing act, the surface-level check-in. We circle each other from a distance, rarely landing, rarely staying long enough to build a nest.

After my mother died, the soul thread unraveled. She had been the one who made connection possible. Without her, the hawks scattered. The shift from soul-deep intimacy to weather talk felt inevitable. But it wasn’t. It was a choice. A pattern. A flight path inherited and repeated.

Some of us fly to protect. Some to escape. Some to avoid ever being seen. Some of us mistake silence for strength. Some of us mistake distance for dignity.

I’ve flown that way too. But I’m done circling. I want to land. I want to build. I want to fly with intention, not avoidance.

Cooper’s Hawk Symbolism

The Cooper’s Hawk is a raptor of paradox. It thrives in the in-between—forest and sky, stillness and strike, solitude and sharpness. It teaches us how to move through density without losing direction. How to hold our power without always using it.

In many traditions, hawks are messengers. But the Cooper’s Hawk isn’t the loud herald of prophecy. It’s the quiet sentinel. The one who sees what others miss. The one who doesn’t need applause to know its worth.

It reminds us:

• To move with precision, not panic.
• To observe before reacting.
• To protect our territory without apology.
• To fly alone when necessary, not out of bitterness, but out of sovereignty.

But like all archetypes, the Cooper’s Hawk carries a shadow. And that shadow is where the soul work begins.

The Shadow of the Cooper’s Hawk

In shadow, the Cooper’s Hawk becomes emotionally detached. It circles but never lands. It watches but never engages. It strikes without warning, then disappears without explanation.

This is the hawk that lives in my lineage:

• The ones who speak in haste and vanish in silence.
• The ones who offer surface-level connection but flee from depth.
• The ones who pride themselves on independence but mistake it for isolation.
• The ones who see vulnerability as weakness, and intimacy as risk.

In shadow, the hawk becomes a ghost in daylight. Present, but unreachable. Fierce, but unfeeling. It teaches us how to survive—but not how to connect.

And I’ve inherited this flight pattern. I’ve lived it. I’ve used it. I’ve hidden behind it. I’ve called it strength when it was really fear. I’ve called it discernment when it was really avoidance.

But now, I choose to change it.

The Light of the Cooper’s Hawk

In light, the Cooper’s Hawk is a master of discernment. It knows when to engage and when to retreat. It doesn’t chase approval. It doesn’t perform. It flies with purpose, not panic.

This is the hawk I aspire to be:

• The one who lands with intention.
• The one who protects without punishing.
• The one who sees clearly and chooses wisely.
• The one who flies alone when needed, but never out of fear.

In light, the hawk becomes a guide. A guardian. A soul companion. It teaches me how to hold my boundaries like wings—flexible, strong, sacred. It teaches me that solitude isn’t exile. It’s clarity. It teaches me that flight isn’t escape. It’s emergence.

I fly now with this hawk. Not the one who vanishes, but the one who returns with wisdom.

Soul Lessons from the Hawk

This journey has taught me more than how to say goodbye. It’s taught me how to say yes—to myself, to my rhythm, to the sacredness of my own becoming.

Here are the soul lessons I carry now, feathered and fierce:

• Forgiveness is not a doorway. It’s a release. I can bless someone on their path without inviting them back into mine.
• Connection is not proof of love. Some people stay out of habit, not heart. I want resonance, not residue.
• Silence is not always peace. Sometimes silence is avoidance. Sometimes it’s refusal to witness. I no longer confuse quiet with care.
• Boundaries are not walls. They are altars. Sacred lines where I meet myself again.
• We are all the hawk. But we choose how we fly. In shadow or in light. In fear or in clarity. In performance or in presence.

A Blessing for the Ones I’ve Released

To the ones who couldn’t stay: I release you.
To the ones who only saw the surface: I release you.
To the ones who vanished when truth arrived: I release you.
To the ones who circled but never landed: I release you.
To the ones who meant well but never reached in: I release you.
To the ones who taught me how to fly alone: I thank you.

My Flight Begins

This is not exile. This is emergence.
This isn’t a purge. It’s a prayer.
A prayer for space. For clarity. For resonance.
A prayer for the hawk in all of us to come home—not to each other, necessarily, but to ourselves.

I fly now with the Cooper’s Hawk. Not as a shadow, but as a sovereign.
I fly with forgiveness in my feathers and clarity in my wings.
I fly toward resonance, not recognition.
Toward soul-level connection, not surface-level performance.

And if you see me in the sky—circling, silent, sovereign—know that I’m not lost.
I’m home.

Because the hawk doesn’t mourn the forest that won’t listen.
It finds new air.

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