As winter began thinning here in Toronto, I have been going on more walks. On one of these walks on a sunny weekday afternoon, I saw a dead bird and a dead squirrel buried under the melting snow on the sidewalk. The insides of the bird were mangled by the winter cold, but the squirrel was still fuzzy under its fur.
A few days prior, I saw another dead squirrel under a bridge. A few weeks prior, I saw a hawk eating its prey at the perimeter of Balboa Park in San Diego. At first, the hawk was well camouflaged, but then I saw a man with a dog record the hawk.
I took these dead bodies as signs: Something is dead, done, and over in my life. This, I believe, is my old way of being in the world. Being hopeful without feeling powerful. Waiting for something to happen without inviting and allowing things to happen. Waiting to be chosen rather than being the one to choose.
Does this mean that I am the hawk now? Where then is my “prey”?
