Faith in Feathers

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly
Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

"Blackbird"  -The Beatles

Part 1 - I'm a Little Cray

It's time we talked about feathers. I've been anxious to broach the subject with you, but it's a tenuous line at best, the whole feathers thing. I mean, I certainly put stock in it. But, will you? I've been called many things. Crazy certainly comes to mind. Too free-spirited has been said a time or two. A little bit out there is another fragment I've heard once or twice, downwind from a conversation in my midst. That's ok. Really, it is. With the way the world is today, for me to be considered non-conforming is a heck of a compliment. That's how I'll take it, at least. So, about those feathers.

Lots of things come to mind when one hears the word feathers. Things can be feathered. Like 70's bangs. Paint strokes. Big bird. Smallish birds. People dipped in tar. Things can be filled with feathers. Pillows. Down comforters. Insanely expensive couch cushions. Remember that early 2000's phase where all the girls were getting feathers permanently attached in their hair? That was kinda cool, actually. There are feathers in chandeliers nowadays. Feathers hanging in dream catchers. Native American headdresses. Tattoos. The list is never ending. I'll stop now. Let me get to the heart of the matter. I need to tell you about my feathers.

When someone you love dies, you miss them. Duh. It hurts your heart. Sooner or later, if you're lucky, life intervenes. The other people that you also love need you. Really, really need you. So, you plow forward. Seasons change. That's good, too. And, not so good. Sometimes you sit up in the bed at night with tears streaming down your face and you feel so guilty. Maybe you had a string of several happy-go-lucky days. Even 2 weeks in a row where you belly laughed continuously and did unheard of things like take a vacation.  Your person, though, is still there in your heart. In your mind. In your soul. In your dreams. Do they think you forgot them? How could you dare do this? This being happy thing. Damn you. Then the next day you get up, that overnight nervous breakdown a distant memory, and trudge on. But the winds of change, they're a blowin',

Part 2 - Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs

My mother loves cardinals. She believes with every fiber of her being that a cardinal means someone you loved who passed on is coming back to visit you. Cardinals, to her, are a sign of hope. She sees cardinals and thinks of her parents, the baby sister she never knew, countless aunts and uncles, and her granchild, my daughter. I knew someone who firmly insisted that every single penny she every saw on any surface that existed was a sign from her late son. He was telling her to be happy. He was telling her he was ok. That he loved her. Some people associate certain smells with those who've passed away. I'll have to admit, I have a very vague memory of my Great Aunt Floy. Very vague. She was gravely ill in her home. I went to visit her and another of my Great Aunts was there with her grandchildren. My siblings were old enough to live on their own when I was born, so an afternoon with other kids was a rarity. They were boys and they showed me how to make bridge tunnels in the dirt and roll the hot wheel cars through them. Earth shattering. Later on, I was ushered in to see my Great Aunt. She held my hand and touched my hair. She made me promise to read lots of books and she gave me a tiny figurine of a French Victorian lady that I ALWAYS asked to hold when at her house. That was almost 45 years ago and that figurine is currently in my dining room. But, I digress. Almost 20 years later and hurrying to catch the DART bus, I was scurrying through one of the downtown Dallas tunnels that takes you seemingly halfway across the city. I smelled oregano. Tears came to my eyes and I had to stop and take several deep breaths. Aunt Floy, I thought. I smell your kitchen, Aunt Floy. It made me so incredibly happy. And I missed the bus that day, but I was so in awe of this perceived connection that I didn't even care.

And, what does any of this have to do with feathers? That is my sign. From my daughter. I guess when you leave this world at 16 you're always 16. That's the way I see her, anyway - 16, laughing, and beautiful. I have a jar of feathers. Actually a jar, and a tin, and a box. There are a lot of feathers. And, ok, you may be thinking how this has sort of turned into a lame story tonight, BUT WAIT. You haven't heard the whole thing yet. These feathers turn up in the darnedest places. Like, that one time where I was running one morning and really thinking about my daughter. I was wearing sunglasses. Tip - crying in public is much easier when you wear sunglasses. Thank me later. Anyway, as I recovered and be-bopped back up to my house, I'm unlocking the door and about to walk inside when I look down and see, wedged in between the screen door and the front door, a blue jay feather. So, I kept it. And I had the best day that day. Remember the winter a couple of years ago where we had actual snow in Texas? It was way too cold for way too long. I found a feather in the front yard on the snow, which I thought was odd. Here's the BEST feather story. I was working extensively with my friend, Emily. It was c-c-c-cold. December-ish. I was driving to our meeting point. Not a care in the world. (I don't drive. I hold benefit concerts. So, I have the radio as loud as it will go and I belt out songs. Occasionally in key.) When I got to Emily's, I reached for my purse, grabbed my keys, unhooked my seat belt, and noticed something. On my leg. A feather. A guinea feather, no less. In the winter. I scurried inside, feather in hand, and said, "Look what I just found ON MY LEG as I was pulling in." She said, "That's from Chynna." This week, I've found no less that 5 feathers in random places. Somewhere I was about to step. The bed of my truck. Next to my mailbox. Today I was walking into Walmart. I had yesterday's Starbuck's cold brew coffee cup in my hand and thought I'd actually throw it away in the trashcan instead of letting it procreate with the other cups in my truck. As I was trying to get the disgusting gum encrusted trashcan lid to swing inward, something glided past my face and landed at my feet, Forrest Gump style. A feather. A huge, black feather with white speckles on the ends. I kept it. It's sitting here next to me as I'm writing this. "Okay, daughter of mine," I thought. "Let's share this." Maybe one day I'll have enough feathers to make a Native American headdress. Or a dream catcher. Or a pillow. Maybe she is trying to tell me something. I guess that is a long shot. Communicating with my late daughter through a series of feather sightings? But after all, what is the definition of faith? Unshakable belief in something you cannot prove. Boom. I'm ok, baby girl. Better than ok. I'm awesome. And I love the feathers. And I love you.