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Beacons
of the Night
Eleanor K. Sommer |
Eleanor K. Sommer is a writer and editor who lives in Gainesville, Florida. She is also an Artist-in-Residence with the Shands Arts in Medicine program where she works bedside with heart transplant patients. Her most relaxing moments are spent in her garden where she grows herbs and vegetables. |
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Owls have always crept into my psyche as symbols of mystery and wisdom. Even as a child I loved to listen to the deep calls of the owls that populated the woods surrounding our New Jersey home. Every now and then I would see their wide eyes and massive wing spread, hear the swoop of air as they lifted from a branch in search of prey. Night hunters. Specters of death. Sharp-eyed visionaries. The owl sees what others cannot. The owl does not always bring happy news, but it is a powerful symbol of transformation.
My residency in the woods ended when I moved to Florida for college and my glimpses of owls came only on visits home, on camping trips, or when I visited friends who lived in less populated areas.
It wasn’t until I moved to Naples, Florida, that owls once again became a regular part of my life. Two nearby towering pines were home to a pair of Great Horned Owls, probably residents long before we moved in! Their familiar calls and ethereal presence rekindled my bond with these great birds of prey.
Our neighborhood had a small park in the middle of it. A live oak, a handful of palms, and some pine trees made perfect perches for owls and a nice vista for the residents. My husband and I often walked around the park at dusk, listening to owls as they prepared for their evening foraging.
The walks always relaxed us, especially as we wrangled with some tough decisions about moving to a different part of Florida. We loved Naples, but it was becoming crowded and commercial. We longed for “old Florida.” Our walks became meditative discussions. Should we go? Should we stay? I posed the question one night out loud to the stars and opened my arms to the sky. At that moment, a moment that seemed like a surrender, one of the owls swooped down so close to my head I felt its tail wind brush my hair.
“Well, there’s your answer,” my husband exclaimed.
Indeed it was an answer. Transformation. A change. A sign that it was time for something new.
The next morning my insight was confirmed when my husband brought in an owl feather that had fallen on our driveway.
“I think this is probably for you,” he said.
Our avian friends were almost run off by the screech of buzz saws that claimed one of the trees in the stand of pines they called home. Our callous neighbor was frustrated with pine needles falling on her car. Move the driveway, I suggested, but down came the tree.
At our going away party, a friend brought me an envelope of several owl feathers that she and her husband had found on a camping trip. I tied them together with my owl feather and some sea-worn rocks and shells from my favorite beach in Naples: memories to carry with me inland.
Good-bye, owls. May your home be safe.
We rented space in a house in Gainesville, a north central Florida community know for its spectacular tree canopy and surrounding miles of undeveloped land.
We looked for land to buy. We drove and drove, got lost on dirt roads, were chased by dogs, and lied to by real estate agents. We settled on a piece of land and bought it before we had spent the night on it. When we finally camped we were met by a glaring security light belonging to a neighbor. It illuminated our five acres like Disneyworld, creeping into the trees and casting bizarre shadows. The majestic live oaks that could have dimmed the unnatural pink glow reached too far west to allow room for the house. Worse than the lights was the silent morning sky.
“Do you hear that?” I asked my husband upon awakening.
“Hear what?”
“Exactly,” I said. “No birds!”
A combination of the light, a nasty neighbor, and the dearth of wildlife put us on the road again.
We finally discovered acreage close to town and obtained permission to spend the night first -- before signing any papers. This lovely 40-acre piece of property with a creek meandering through it was more than we could afford, but friends were interested in sharing the expenses in order to restore and preserve some of the land. It was also adjacent to several hundred acres of land already preserved by two communities with strict rules against tree-cutting and wayward development; we hoped for no surprises on our overnight visit.
As the sunset faded behind the pines and sweet gums, a breeze glided over the open field where we imagined our home. Birds and frogs and crickets actively took up the evening song. We were pleased. This land was alive!
As the gray blanket of night covered the trees, I heard a faint hoot, then a louder,
hoo, hoo-oo, hoo, hoo.
I could feel my husband’s smile through the darkness.
“You heard it?”
“I heard it.”
More than a year later, we finally moved into our modest cabin, glad to be part of a community with a love of nature and rules against outdoor lights. Our owl friends were assured of good neighbors who desired to protect the habitat.
The next day, I ventured outside in the chill of the December morning. I inhaled the pine-scented air and watched my breath hang like smoke as I exhaled into the frost.
As I looked down, I saw, just inches in front of my toes, a feather. An owl feather. I felt transformed, alive, and ready for a new adventure in the woods.
We hear them often, screeching as they descend upon their dinner, hooting as they pass signals and declare territory. Beacons of the night. Seeing what we do not. Guiding us toward transformation.
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