I went looking for a feather…

I took myself out on a treasure hunt. If I’m being honest with myself, I was looking for a sign. A message, of sorts. A wink, perhaps, from the goddess to gift me with clear-seeing as I stare blindly into the mystery of things.

And, if I’m being even more honest with both you and with me, I will admit that I’d already decided what my sign would be – a feather. Probably from a gull. Maybe a duck. A swan, if I was especially lucky. The place where I live, this home by the harbour, is alive with birds. Crows, starlings, cormorants, mallards, terns, gulls, goldfinches, swallows, swans, robins, the occasional wood pigeon. I’ve even seen a hawk here once, although I think that was a year back now.

My sign was going to reassure me, you see. Feathers speak to me of faith, of flight, of trust, of traversing the winds of change with grace and mastery. Feathers speak to me of the things we leave behind, of legacy, and of letting go. Feathers speak to me of soft places to land.

A crow feather would have said all this and it would have added depth, mystery, darkness and shadow to the conversation. A swan feather would have drawn my attention to strength and to voice. A duck feather might have gestured towards resilience (like water off a duck’s back) and also towards mothering, reminding me of a dream I once had of a mama duck minding her nest. A gull feather would have reminded me of my ambition, my discernment, my perspective.

So, yes, I confess. I went looking for a feather. For I had already determined the shape of my message from the mystery.

The funny thing is that the mystery rarely conspires with our expectations. This small outcrop of reclaimed land that is home to the largest population of terns on the UK mainland, that is visited by so many birds of so many shapes and sizes, was, today, utterly clean of all feathers. Not a single one. Not gull nor duck, and certainly not swan.

Instead, this is what I found…

Snail shells. I held them lightly in my hand, finding them one after the other in the places where I looked for feathers, absent-mindedly jingling them in my loosely closed hand. As I searched for a feather – any feather – I overlooked the gifts I held in my hand. It wasn’t bird medicine I was being given at all. It was snail.

But really, I asked myself, who wants snail medicine? If I could choose for myself, I’d most certainly choose a bird of come sort. Or maybe something exotic – a big cat, perhaps. Or a snake. Although, exotic animals are somewhat lacking along the south eastern Scottish coastline. I’d even take a spider as long as it was symbolised by an empty web – an occupied web gives me shivers. But snail? Slow. Slimy. Uninteresting. Bland. Did I mention slow?

Towards the end of my walk, my eye caught on something. Nope, not a feather. A piece of old crockery.

The pattern on the broken crockery – a spiral – mirrored back through the shape of the snail shells. Spiralling in. Spiralling out. Calling me to keep close to my own truth, always staying with what is present right now – in this moment and in the next. Slowing down, breathing deep, savouring the now, holding my belly close to the ground, to the earth, to the mother of all things.

So yes, not a feather. But exactly what I needed. Of course. Delivered along with the reminder that the mystery wasn’t meant to be micro-managed, as it just shows up how it pleases. My job isn’t to determine how it does that. My job is to be present with what’s here. And today, what’s here is a clutch of snail shells and a broken piece of crockery. Perfect, no?