| Sunny Side Up June 26, 2002 �2002, Kathleen Gibson God�s little reminders of hope I�m a fan of feathers. I find them�rather, they find me�on my countryside jaunts and during my lakeshore trudges. Without fail, they float directly onto my path and wait motionless to be found; alighting only long enough for me to inspect them before they continue their airborne journey. I pocket the nicest ones. The long white pinfeathers from seagulls� wings. The glossy black tailfeathers of crows. Even the curled white breast feathers from chickens and geese, downy and soft as air. Once, while strolling a Nanaimo Beach, I happened across an eagle feather, a gift from the pair soaring overhead. Their eyrie was in the top of a giant fir at the ocean�s edge. And earlier that summer while hiking, I was surprised by a particularly lucky find�an intact hawk�s wing, likely the leftovers of a satisfied predator�s dinner. The feathers were immaculately arranged in patterned symmetry. I fanned them wide through the air, listened to their hushed rustle as the breeze swept their precise lengths. And I was sad, imagining that last flight. Friends and family encourage my feather fetish. My husband brings home the most striking ones he finds. My daughter, too. A pair of raucous crows drop theirs off at the back door�after they�ve driven the cat to distraction. Even my cohorts at Community theater are accustomed to me spiriting off any stray plumes that fall from their Victorian hats. Years ago, my son rescued an orphaned baby waxwing. I saved three of its yellow-tipped tail feathers. Saved too, a neat bundle of bright pheasant feathers from a gentleman�s dress hat, though I don�t know which gentleman. And as I write, an ostrich feather, long and narrow and milk-chocolate brown, is lying on my desk. I have no idea who put it there. A feather is a wondrous thing. Scientists explain how it snares the air, tricks it into servanthood with thousands of tiny zipper-like barbs and a hollow quill. But I prefer the mystery. Wordless, a feather speaks eloquently of the possible impossible. Of sunlight above clouds, of riding the wind, of lofty views reserved for the airborne alone. Of hope. Says Emily Dickinson, Hope is the thing with feathers� That perches in the soul� And sings the song without the words� And never stops�at all. Some of my feathers become bookmarks in my Bible. Most are consigned to a copper-sheathed wooden chest under my couch. Nothing in it at all, nothing but feathers. When I die, (not for some time, I hope, but can we ever know?) I want someone to pass them out at my funeral as a reminder to hope. A reminder that God promises to shelter us in the shadow of his great wings and that when all we see is shadow, perhaps it�s God�s shadow. Need hope? Pick up a feather. And read Psalms 91:4. �He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.� You can respond to this column at [email protected] |
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