Epiphany

Cycles are the foundation of progress and stagnancy. Earium thought as she struggled to make sense of her life. Always ends at the same place. I take a jump and end up lost, a failure. What am I doing wrong? Earium hoped her thoughts were going somewhere as she stared at the rural night sky with its multitude of stars that answered her with silence. Starlight illuminated the branches of oak trees, Russian olive trees, fence lines, and wheat stalks but not answers.

It came on the wind, that haunting echo of wisdom that yearned to be heard but no one listened. Her tear blurred sight climbed up the shadow of a telephone pole that towered above the fence posts. On the top and barely visible in the night were the wings of a familiar form. It’d been a constant messenger as a great horned owl or a screech owl, but she’d moved to rural Utah, tonight it took the shape of a large barn owl. The outlined shadow brought comfort and eagerness simultaneously as again the hoots sang on the wing wrapping her in a song that nudged her soul to hear. The sounds, crescendos in her mind, pulsated with a need to be understood.

“I know you’re trying to tell me, but I don’t speak owl,” frustration made Earium speak out loud.

Echoed hoots carried by the wind continued with an urgency that drummed in her ears.

“Ugh! What are you trying to tell me! You’ve always shown up at times like this. What am I supposed to know?”

It seemed so simple. She should be able to understand. It spoke to her very soul. Why hadn’t she grasped it yet?

The owl flapped its wings, the sound like thick leaves caught in the wind. It adjusted a bit on top of the pole then continued its song. The wind blew with more persistence.

Earium closed her eyes and focused only on what she heard. Wind with the sound that shushed her mind and blocked her thoughts and wings that flapped and pushed the thoughts away. The mind became silent. The wings and wind dissipated into the darkness and only the echoed sounds of the owl were heard clearly. It was a symphony of monotone notes so pregnant with knowledge her ears ached. In the consistent rhythm, she began to listen, really listen.

“Do you live life as your own, Earium?” The owl asked and her soul answered.

“I try to. I’ve done so much wrong though. How do I know when I’m living for myself or still making up for the past? I always choose wrong!”

“A cycled path is meant to teach you to go a different way. Owls do not circle. We depart, reach our destination, depart and return. It’s a path of purpose. Sometimes, that path has come with great distance, but still we fly.”

The question that lingered wasn’t asked, it was felt. Is mine a path of purpose? The question lingered deep inside her and it floated for minutes as Earium pondered the answer.

Images flashed across her closed eyes. A little girl, scared, running to hide in a closet and shunned by the other children, a teenager that fought low self-esteem and fought for individualism, a woman, torn between guilt and duty. None of those images resembled a woman that owned her existence. I’ve been stuck in fight or flight all of my life. The realization hit with a hard finality her breath caught and for a few moments, only the owl’s aria existed.

The destination had never been a point of travel, only to run away or be the victim. That had been the cycle. Time to change direction had been long overdue. Thoughts returned to her mind as the wind became a gentle breeze. At the top of the telephone pole, there was only the memory of that familiar friend, but there was still a slight outline of where it had stood. A turn to the left revealed a white door and a quaint little pink house; both seemed more real than the world around them. Here stood her next steps. Calm flowed from head to toe with each step. As the door was opened subtle light welcomed a lightened heart and a soul that carried purpose.