On my walk this morning I saw a feather. It made me think about how magical I once thought feathers to be. I loved how they felt, how they were structured, how they looked in the sun. I was pretty sure with the right words and right swoosh through the air, anything was possible.
I also held romantic notions about all the things I could write using the quill. The end product of writing with one was rarely what I imagined but like a four-leaf clover, I was freshly inspired by possibilities on the discovery of each new feather.
I should probably mention that as a kid picking up and (gasp!) bringing a feather inside my house was a necessary covert activity, especially when my grandmother lived with us. She called feathers ‘filthy’ with a facial expression of disgust that I can still see clearly in my mind all these years later.
Harvesting ‘ink’ was another obstacle. I cut up my share of pens and never accumulated a well, just a lot of ink all over my hands. I used lemon juice for secret messages. Mustard was a medium I used born out of sheer inspiration, or maybe it was desperation because I don’t ever recall having paint or food colouring or anything else to use in a quill-writing emergency.
So, when I spotted the feather on the sidewalk this morning, the voice I heard in my head said this, “It’s too bad that feather is so filthy.”
Can you still hear the faint echo of magic? It is tucked into the words, ‘it’s too bad’. I also felt it; a slight ache at my chest, a longing for something I once knew in my heart.
Listen for your own echos this week. Listen for them through your body, right inside the moment you are in. Let your authentic self know you are willing to hear and ready to take flight.
