What began yesterday as a day of darkening skies and the scent and promise of snow upon the wind faded with the falling, as near as I could tell, of a single small flake: By day’s end, the sun was out, strong and bright, western sky clearing and blue. As we went about our evening chores, hope had long since turned to a profound irritation, which was nevertheless better than the despair that underlay it.
But something kept me from giving voice to that annoyance, and it proved to be a reminder of the truth that sometimes it’s better to be silent. One never wants to tempt the spirits, particularly not those of a tricksterish aspect. And sure enough, that silence was rewarded with a sudden fierce storm in the hours after full dark: sleet and freezing rain punctuated by thunder and all-encompassing flashes of lightning, a storm that lasted most, perhaps all, of the night. Lightning, and it’s nearly December — a phenomenon virtually unheard-of here.
Trickster spirits, indeed.
But the Thunderbirds and their mischievous friends are not the only spirits abroad at this season. It may have been freezing rain and sleet here, but peaks and slopes alike are dusted with white this morning, a clear reminder that the spirit of winter itself, for all practical purposes, is here. Oh, it may be capricious and inconstant in this drought, preferring to dash in for a moment or a day, then retrace its steps to some future date and bide its time once more. Meanwhile, the other sort of winter spirits arrive daily: the scrub jays and the small birds, juncos and sparrows, finches and chickadees.
And the eagles.
It’s vanishingly rare that a bald eagle appears to us up here, right at Red Willow at the base of the peaks. There is too much colonial development here now, too much human habitation of a sort that has no respect for their kind. They prefer to congregate along the Gorge, west and south of here, soaring over the great roiling river or perching above it in the old bare cottonwoods, in spaces where no human hands can reach.
Until last week.
Last week, that rarest of gifts appeared here, directly overhead: Bald Eagle, swooping and soaring on the currents in a clear blue sky. He was joined by our resident red-tailed hawk, a giant of her kind; indeed, it was she who led me to sight of her larger cousin, having suddenly raced low across the land, then climbed to join him at play. They spiraled overhead for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, an eternity when compared to Eagle’s more usual appearances here — fleeting, a momentary flash of brown and white as it makes its way with deliberate speed to some other destination. To see one at play or rest, one more typically needs to go down the Gorge, and even then, it’s always a matter of timing and luck.
The three photos of this eminently indigenous (and Indigenous) spirit shown here today are part of a small series Wings captured on a single day some fourteen or fifteen years ago, a singular blessing on a trip through the Gorge one winter’s day. In our way, they are spirits of strength and power and medicine; even the sight of them ignites hope in our hearts and bravery in our spirits. To have been able to sight more than one at a time, and to capture the sighting on film? Was an extraordinary gift indeed.
The first image is of one mature bald eagle, sitting solitary upon the end of the branch of an old and gnarled tree, its skeleton blackened and broken. At that time of year, it was perfect camouflage; if you don’t already know that a bald eagle is the focal point of the photo, it blends easily with the blackened branch and the white patches of snow in the background. It is perhaps a lesson in strategy and strength, and courage, too: It is incumbent upon us to stand ready to help, to resist, to defend, but that obligation does not require us to be rash. Sometimes declining not to draw attention to ourselves is more effective in the long run.
It’s a lesson our ancestors had cause to know well. It’s easy, from this remove, to insist that we would have made different decisions . . . but we are here to have the luxury of making such assertions. Had they done as some today suggest, perhaps we would not be here to challenge it. What we have the privilege of regarding, from this distance and relative safety, as insufficiency was in fact perhaps the only viable option of the time. And the ancestors have left us a rich legacy of teachings, of prayer and prophecy and the tools with which to bring a new and better world into being.
Speaking of such legacies, they appear here today, as well. The images in today’s post are paired today with one work of wearable art, one of the gemstone bead coil bracelets shown from two separate angles. It’s a work that serves, in part, as these powerful spirits’ namesake — or, rather, the part of themselves that they lend to us as a tool of prayer and ceremony, medicine and healing. It’s shown here adorning a bit of ancient antler coiled in its own small spiral; from its description in the relevant section of the Bracelets Gallery here on the site:
Eagle Feather Coil Bracelet
The eagle feather carries our prayers to spirit; as a gift, it is an honor conferred, a sign of respect for the person who has earned it. Wings calls its power into the spiraling hoop of this coil bracelet, one strung with gifts of the earth in the mottled earthy tones of Eagle’s own robes. At either end are the feather’s downy fringe, made of Hawai’ian puka shell in hue a shade off snow-white. Just above, the raptor’s characteristic mottling begins, expressed in the form of a length of doughnut-shaped rondels of variegated fossilized dinosaur bone. The bone flows into shades of black with round matte onyx, thence to more round beads of mottled black and white snowflake obsidian, fire and ice that flows into lengths of ovaled barrel beads of basaltic lava rock. At the center rest seven large faceted diamond-shaped barrel beads in smoky quartz, the color of a young eagle’s feathers and the shape of the Eye of Spirit itself. Note: Puka shell fringe beads are fragile; best worn for special occasions, not everyday wear. Designed jointly by Wings and Aji.
Memory wire; Hawai’ian puka shell; fossilized dinosaur bone; onyx;
snowflake obsidian; basaltic lava rock; smoky quartz
$325 + shipping, handling, and insurance
The colors in the coil come clear in the second image, a pair of the powerful raptors companionably sharing space on another old and gnarled tree. The high dead branches provide a perfect vantage point for reconnaissance, allowing them the proverbial eagle’s-eye view of the river, and the buffet of potential meals it presents. It also provides them the opportunity to elude danger quickly, should that present itself as well.
This second image, though, speaks to me entirely of serenity — not relaxation, which implies a lack of attention, but respite and contentment. Both great birds are unquestionably aware of their surroundings, yet at peace in them, no need for either fight or flight.
And in truth, they are extraordinary surroundings. Ancient boulders, fallen to form rocky outcroppings along the slopes beneath the ridgeline; the winter greenery of mesquite and sage, lush and deep; what remains of the old cottonwoods now only the skeletal arms of ancient warriors, extended toward the sky as if in eternal prayer. This is an old land, a timeless land, animated by spirits more ancient yet, and it bears the same rugged beauty one would expect to find in the bones and lines of such a being’s face.
It’s a set of animating spirits that infuse today’s featured work: stone, shell, fossilized bone.
It’s a spiral of feathery shapes and shades, ivory and brown and gray and black, the ends of the shaft flaring and fanning outward into the world, the better hold one’s prayers aloft until they reach their destination. The body of it is a coil of wintry earth: soft flat onyx, impossibly smooth and opaque; basaltic lava rock, cooled and richly textured, like the center of the peaks and plateaus and cliffs that line the Gorge and hold this land in their embrace; shimmering snowflake obsidian, the very image of our earth here today, dark and mottled with snow. They all hold at their center the low glowing light of early winter, the faceted refraction of a smoky quartz fire. And at either end, just before the curved barbs of puka shell? The bones of impossibly ancient spirits, fossilized for millions of years before showing themselves once more to the light, polished to show all their mottled, marbled richness to flawless effect, all the shades of dinosaur bone that find themselves reflected in the regalia of their descendants, the eagle’s feather.
Speaking of feathers, it is their collective power that allows Eagle to soar to such singular heights, a quality that makes them so well suited to sending our own prayers skyward. And one the most powerful images is that of Eagle himself in flight, feathers draped elegantly and glowing in the light.
Such images are, in part, pure accident, or at least fortune: No matter the photographer’s patience and skill, unless the eagle agrees to take flight, there will be no shot of wings spread and feathers fanned. But Wings was granted such an opportunity this day, and he caught this embodiment of his own name, soaring with grace and all the power of prayers rising.
And if we have sent our prayers rising in recent weeks, it has been with good cause.
Two days ago, I noticed a new irregularity on the aspens directly behind the house, the ones on the north side that get almost no sun. They had not merely budded, as has been happening early for some years now, but bloomed: On the branches closest to the wall, the buds had already cracked open to reveal fluffy white orbs — catkins, which normally appear here in late March to April.
This morning, the orbs are still white, but there the similarity ends; no longer fluffy, they are now frozen, small white crystal balls like the ornaments on a holiday evergreen. Now, it is snowing — only the faintest of flurries, to be sure, but snowing all the same.
Perhaps the Earth is engaged in righting herself again . . . and perhaps our prayers are being answered now.
For that, there will be prayers of thanksgiving to send rising skyward, sent by smoke and an eagle feather.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2020; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
