The Pileated Woodpecker

Today the yorkie poo and I were taking a walk around and between two lakes, under a bridge, and near some naked trees. I was lost in a reverie of my own thoughts; the yorkie poo was lost in a bliss of unusual smells and piles of snow. Both of us were enjoying the sunshine and I was trying to pretend that the temperature was higher than 15 degrees. 

The noise of twittering birds often fills the air while we go for a walk--the cardinal's cheep, the chickadee's chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee, the whistle of a robin. All of these sounds have become background noise. They barely register. But today I heard a laugh--that registered. I looked up and there, in a crook of branches high in the air, sat a pileated woodpecker.

"Look! Friday! A pileated woodpecker!" 

I frequently talk to my dog while on walks and so he did what he usually does in these moments, he ignored me completely. I stood transfixed; he stuck his nose in a snowbank. He failed to grasp the importance of the situation, but for me it rarer and more exciting than seeing a shooting star, or Rudolph's nose on Christmas Eve.

The pileated woodpecker is an enormous bird--at least in terms of woodpeckers. It looks like a small bird that has been magnified to the size of a crow, raven or barn owl. I haven't seen them often, and I come from a family of bird watchers. In fact, I've only seen one one other time; it was pointed  out to me by my mom, the queen of all bird watchers.

"Kids! Look! A pileated woodpecker!" 

She had us running through the house and in the yard, my brothers and I were still pajama clad and barefoot. This was an exciting day. A moment to be treasured. In this moment I think all of us kids realized there was something special about this bird, and about a mother who cared so much about this bird.

I called my mom today to tell her about my sighting. "I saw something really rare."

"A shooting star?"

"No, rarer. Something that would make you run through the house in your pajamas."

"A pileated woodpecker! Oh, how exciting!" 

And we talked about the bird for a while. It was a conversation lacking tension and complex rules. It was a purely delightful memory.

My mom and I rarely connect on such a harmonious level and not that we fight anymore, like we did in the high school years, but we just aren't often on the same vibration. There are old pains we both carry around that make it tough to connect open heartedly. I feel sensitive to criticism, reluctant to share my feelings, and irritated by suggestions and directions. I don't know what she thinks. I wish we could always talk birds to each other.

In the last year I have spent a lot of time in therapy processing my divorce. I have learned words like "codependency" and "addiction" and "toxic shame" and "family-of-origin." I have even started to examine how my interactions with my family have shaped who I am today. It is not always pleasant. It is often scary. It is discovering what is behind the screen, shredding the material of illusion, and coming face to face with the truth of my past. I am reluctant to look at the truth most days. I think I love the illusion too much.

But here is what is not an illusion:

Pileated woodpeckers. 

Bird feeders. 

Cross country skiing through snowy woods.

Feeling a hush created by a snow-insulated world.

Smelling the fresh air of the pine trees. 

Noticing foot prints of animals. 

Holding bird seed out to chickadees so tame they land on your mitten, 

(or the hat of a five year-old brother). 

Whatever dark secrets reside in my past, whatever sad truths I encounter, this is also my truth. This is not an illusion. My family, my mom, taught me to love the world. To love the world in small ways. In feathers and laughter. In quiet hushed tones and the offerings of mittens.