Bare tree
shadowy veil
old snow
won’t let go.
Beaded Judges
shift
spring tides
hide
predators
with eyes.
Crows
reveal
old bones…
March is the month when crows scream, screeching and mobbing as they soar through indigo skies – their harsh declarations hurt my ears though I know they are mating and nesting.
Although crows are as bright as the rest of the Corvids they are also mobsters, bullies who haunt the forest to harass sleeping owls; next month they will be stealing birds’ eggs or killing the songbirds themselves. With three billion birds extinct, their predatory nature might be considered a threat. And unlike most avian species their numbers are not decreasing. Crows will consume virtually anything; carrion is a favorite. And the latter quality, much like their intelligence reveals a more ‘positive’ side because crows strip the flesh from the bones of the dead. But overall, these ‘hooded’ (European terminology) birds are associated with death ‘A murder of crows’ is an apt description. Even new age folks associate them with the presence of the Shadow side of Reality.
Women are often described as ‘old crows’ even if age is not a factor, and I believe there is truth behind this description. Patriarchal women, that is women who have rejected their own Motherline for the ‘Power of the Fathers’ fall prey to patriarchal domination, a system that is presently extinguishing the lives of humans and non – human species alike through capitalistic greed and indifference. The effects of this destructive way of life may manifest differently for men and women. Here I focus on women.
The astounding absence of compassion, harsh judgments, the use of silence or screaming as a means of control, rigidity, bullying, knifing other women in the back, an unwillingness to wander across the isles, a refusal to examine personal shadow are qualities that reveal the character of ‘crow women’ who often obscure themselves by acting ‘Nice’. That is, until they strike with vengeance.
I’ve known too many.
Every year when I come round to March I face the dark side of the serpent, as I relive my mother’s absence in my life. I was an unwanted child, and because the mother – daughter bone was broken I floundered, and flounder still while enduring a seasonal spring descent as best as I can. Persephone rises but in my story no mother rejoices at this daughter’s return. As an adult I acquiesced, raged, mourned, and eventually held my mother and myself accountable for damages done. Then I tried to let go and couldn’t. Because I did the necessary work I didn’t know why.
Enter the crows who helped enlighten me…
Acknowledging the powers of death is important; feeding those powers is not.
Once my mother fed the crows… and her mother did too. Now I have a neighbor who feeds her crows too.. years ago I periodically left food for these corvids before I lived here until I understood that by feeding the crows I was repeating an old patriarchal story, one that fuels the serpent who has wrapped itself around the earth four times and is gradually squeezing the life out of our planet (Martin Shaw).
We are destroying Our Mother.
I will not destroy mine.
I continue to search for memories of my mother that are not associated with betrayal, confusion, silence, or loss. To my great surprise there are some and as each one surfaces, I wonder how I could have ‘forgotten’. A poignant example is a brief essay on wildflowers that I wrote for publication in which I ‘re -membered’ that my mother’s love for wildflowers was a gift that she bequeathed to me as a child.
Yesterday, to celebrate this bond between us, I bought spring flowers.
And remembered a son who once carried a giant stone egg from one side of an island to the other…
Old crows are picking the bones…