Peregrinations of Consciousness

(Original piece published here.)

My husband spotted a peregrine falcon this morning. Dark back, white breasted, it sat atop a fence post, gazing down at the gopher holes in the front field. Sharp eyed, smaller than the hawks I am used to hearing around here, striking in its appearance.

Peregrine falcons are the fastest animals on earth. When they dive, they can reach speeds of up to 200 miles per hour. This one sat, still except for quick, darting movements of its head, scouting, alert. Peregrines are migratory, never staying for long in one place.

The first time I heard the term peregrination, I fell in love. In my treasure box of beloved words it was immediately placed. For months, I carried the term in my mouth like one of the citrus candies my English grandmother used to carry with her on walks, savoring its flavors. In the fall, when the persimmons were ripe, we’d sample them, the biting astringency leaving our tongues dry. Afterwards, a candy each, the crisp air cutting through the last rays of the sun, the sweetness a welcome relief to a parched mouth. I always wanted the pink ones: grapefruit, the perfect mix of sour and sweet.

“Peregrination”: a pilgrimage. This morning while my husband was bird spotting, I was grappling in the mirror with a stubborn piercing. It’s been whispering at me for several days now, my body urging me to let go once again. I hang on, attached creature that I am (“but, I like it!”). No, today’s the day, it has to go. The hard metal refuses to budge, nearly cutting through my fingers as I work to wedge the ends apart. I give up and come back to it later when the house is quiet. A pair of needle nose pliers does me nicely, and nearly as suddenly as the needle thrust through flesh months ago, it’s out. The somatic release is palpable. Whether it’s the frustration and the intensity of the process suddenly exiting my body, or something greater, I can’t say. I look into the mirror and burst into tears, grieving the image of the self I am being asked yet again to lay down. Now, this.

I go for a walk, seeking solace in the whispers of the redwoods and the lush grass, padding across a deer trail I sometimes traverse. To my right, I see them: four deer, nestled in. We gaze at each other. I am a fence away from them, and yet every time we encounter each other their wariness is palpable. “I mean you no harm”, I say, but before I can take another step an odd noise calls my attention. Thumping, grunting, heavy breathing. Softly, I come over the crest of the hill to find two more deer engaged in a fierce grappling match. I pause, breathless, watching their play. Suddenly, one breaks away and together they bolt, coming straight toward me. I freeze. Less than ten feet and the first corners swiftly away; the other corrects but its feet slide out from under it and it crashes inelegantly into the scrub. Then up before I can inhale and away it dashes into the woods before I can take a step. The whole encounter lasts perhaps a minute or two.

I wander back towards the garden, struck by how quickly my consciousness can shift in its awareness. Gone is the grief of minutes ago. Here, I find myself present, pleasantly aware of the coolness of the night approaching, I let my hand wander, touching here and there, grazing the white sage, the sticky sap leaving promises of clearing and protection on my fingertips. This time of year, the calla lilies have come into full bloom and their white, startling glory peeks up, luscious, unapologetic in their erotic swirling. I pull one up, from the base so next year’s bloom will have room. Peregrinations of consciousness. I fancy myself a pilgrim on the path, walking toward a destination I cannot see but who calls my bones ever closer. Never nesting for long in one space. I am winged, aloft, following the impulses of my soma, flying towards an inner space that I cannot touch except in the most prayerful of moments. The sacredness of the last moments of sunset over the ocean. The delight of my daughter in her greeting me. The inner awakening which is always available yet so often feels like the moon, untouchable, luminous, and soft.