![]() I always remembered what she looked like: the dried-apple face, the silvery gray hair, the snapping blue eyes, quick to stop a patch of tarnish on the brass fairy pin or a dirty fingernail or a poorly tied shoelace. “The lady who ran the pack was known as Brown Owl owls, we were told, meant wisdom. This was a disappointment to me, but not a fatal one. ” Sadly, she did not wear an owl costume, nor did the little girls wear fairy outfits. The little girls pretended to be fairies, gnomes and elves, and the grownup leading it was called Brown Owl. The name of this was the Brownies, and it was quite bizarre. “When I was nine, I was enrolled in a secret society, complete with special handshakes, slogans, rituals, and mottoes. In talking to my sister, she remembered that Margaret Atwood wrote about Brownies in some of her books – and Margaret is much better at describing the whole thing than I ever could be.įrom Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing (page 149) by Margaret Atwood: That’s part of the magic… we’re charged with anonymously carrying on the tradition. And then I thought a bit more about it, and realized that I’m not supposed to. But when I got to thinking about it, I couldn’t remember their proper names. If you were a Brownie as a girl, you likely have fond memories and impressions of your Brown Owl, Tawny Owl, and Snowy Owl. Just before dawn this morning when I walked my dogs I was startled to hear an ongoing call made by a solitary Great Horned owl, surely the most ancient image (and almost always maligned) of a “woman with wings.” I looked over the stark ridges of the reptilian mountains to the Owl’s Place and silently wished the owl good morning as my body was flooded by the comfort that only deep communion can bring.īecause we are all interconnected I am positive that an ancient multitude of women with wings from every continent keeps watch over us all.This post originally appeared on Guider Cara’s blog B rownie Meeting ideas Last night I fell asleep thinking about owls, how some had moved into my woods in Maine just this fall and how it seemed to me that they had followed me here to the high desert… Some of this sensing/feeling comes from being able to disappear into wilderness in minutes with deep silence, the footprints of wild cats, coyotes, and the occasional soaring raven my only companions.Įxcept for the owls who are hidden from sight…Owls who understand that Silence is a Gift. I carefully picked up the feather, and a few bone fragments to bring home with me giving the place two names “Owl Canyon” and the “Owl’s Place” feeling ever so grateful that I could visit here again and again, should I chose.Īs often is the case here in Abiquiu, I felt like I was walking on hallowed ground. Discovery is a magical process and this experience occurring on the afternoon of the eve of the Full Moon felt like a precious gift. ![]() Delighted by the find, it was a moment before I saw the distinctive horizontal barred feather resting in the rubble. By the size of the skulls, jaw bone, leg bones and other fragments I reached the conclusion that this must be a Great Horned Owl’s place of residence. ![]() The serpentine rock strewn path eventually led to a roughly textured column of immense curtained sandstone structures, a couple with deep hollows carved and sculptured by the wind.Ĭlimbing inside the one I could reach to investigate, I immediately noticed a couple of crumbling owl pellets realizing that I must have accidentally stumbled on an owl’s roost, and probable nesting place although it was impossible to see where the structure might be located behind the undulating sandstone curtains.Įxcitedly I began to examine the pellets. My trust in this woman runs deep and so we set out yesterday on a mild December afternoon following a sandy arroyo back into the hills. The day before, my kindred spirit, (Iren’s words) had suggested this canyon as a safe place to walk my two little dogs. Nature was offering me yet another gift on this night of December’s cold, frost, snow, or winter full moon according to various Indigenous traditions. “Who whooo who who,” the harmonious conversation between the two owls filled my heart to overflowing. The deep ‘whooing’ of the Great Horned owls began shortly afterwards just as I got into bed and continued for about fifteen minutes while I reflected upon the remarkable day… It was a beautiful black night peppered by only the brightest stars when I went outdoors to take a picture of the mysterious pearl white orb whose mystery still binds me to her and all women with wings – those women I love, the mother I lost, and of course, all birds.
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