Wild Meetings

I don’t really accept that one magpie foretells sorrow, but I’ll happily anticipate joy when I see two.

But what of all the other creatures I encounter in my little patch of the Welsh borders? It always feels like a privilege to meet the local wildlife, no matter how common. The robin, for example, that filled me with delight by bathing in the water I put out for him on a hot day.

And then I am reminded of the robin that used to regularly visit our smoking area when I was in rehab, claimed by every new arrival as their very own departed loved one. Perhaps my cynicism was misplaced. After all, the meaning may be located not in the bird, but in the meeting: a moment through which love, grief, memory, and longing become present.

Every year on my late mum’s birthday, I celebrate her memory over a special lunch with a very dear mutual friend. And every single year we encounter a creature of such relevance that it always feels like so much more than coincidence.

My mum had a great affinity for animals, owls especially, and later, hares too. When she was dying, she kept speaking of a hare that wanted her to follow it. On the day that she died, her partner gently released her with the words, “It’s okay, you can go with the rabbit now.” And so she did.

So when hares appear as we drive back from these lunches and lope along the lane ahead of us as though leading a procession, not just once but on two different years, we take notice.

Another year, as we returned from lunch by the canal, she came as a heron, perched on a nearby log, and watched us for a long moment. Adding to the significance was the rather more incongruous sight, a few days later, of a heron soaring across the motorway ahead of me, just as I was crying out for a sign.

That’s not to say that I take every encounter with a wild creature to be a message. Sometimes it’s just a shared moment, an interruption to ordinary perception.

A few weeks ago, an exceptionally loud caw-caw made me look up to see a large crow on my back deck, peering intently in at me. As I watched, he hopped a little closer and cocked his head for a better look. Seemingly satisfied, he flew off.

Another time, as I drove down the lane at dusk, an owl swooped in front of my car, and then gazed at me from the branch of an oak tree. As I gazed back, spellbound, through the open window, it felt like we were looking straight into each other’s eyes.

Yesterday, as I skinny-dipped in a local river, a gaggle of lambs suddenly congregated on the far bank, jostling each other like boisterous schoolboys. As I returned their stare, they scampered away, making me laugh out loud.

None of these were particularly mystical, but that’s not to say they weren’t magical.

And then there are animals I’ve encountered in an entirely different way: as spirit guides.

A few years ago, I went to see a local shaman who did some soul retrieval work with me. He told me that the first realm he visited was ancestral – literally prehistoric – where he found me dying and alone in a cave, my clan having been wiped out by a bear. Later in our work, he offered up a bear as my spirit guide and although I didn’t make the connection at the time, there was something very fitting about it: that which had been my greatest fear could now be my teacher.

As I sit here writing, a butterfly flutters into the caravan. Delighted, I watch it do a little lap of the space before flitting back out of the door. As I turn back to the page, a housefly has landed on the table. “Fuck off, fly,” I mutter.

Attention, it seems, is never neutral.

As for the flies, I am content to let the spiders weave a few webs around my home so they can deal with them as they see fit.