Cover photo: Brian Michael Barbeito.

Falcons on a fallen tree, a rescued starling, St. Francis and the gurus — a meditation on birds, mystics and the souls that appear and disappear.

Prose and photograph by Brian Michael Barbeito

Two falcons stood on a fallen tree in the forest. He’d never seen them before. Not that he could remember. But it was a new place. Perhaps that was why. Maybe that was near their home. And later, two hawks went through the sky fast and with a great confidence that was inspiring. No matter what happened to humanity, somehow the natural things would continue. He’d seen or read somewhere that in Chernobyl, after the nuclear incident; against reason, the animals, perhaps both the flora and fauna, had survived and even thrived.

A cardinal bird had been around. Two at least, actually and these were a juxtaposition against the greyness of days then, the internal and external geography. Birds. That’s why there were birders, that’s why there were souls that for a hobby, and perhaps scientists or artists both, that for a living; had an affinity with birds. The more you looked; and the more you saw. The more you paused and were more inquiring, the more there was to learn from and about these mystical beings. Two brown doves had set up a nest in the eaves trough earlier that year, in late spring or early summer. They did well it seemed and then were gone one day. Like ghosts. He wondered what had become of it all. Their family. Their plans. Most were successful he had read then.

Sometimes mystics were affiliated with birds. Wasn’t St. Francis pictured with birds, or in a statue? Old people often fed the birds on benches in public squares or with bird feeders in yards. The elderly and the birds. There was something there. Take it easy. Watch nature. Reconnect with simple things in existence.

Yes. Birds like ghosts. Appearing and disappearing. Sometimes ghosts were in the next world and sometimes between this world and the next. Is a lost soul, in need of rescue, like an injured bird? Somewhat perhaps. He had rescued a Starling bird that was stuck in a pool, waterlogged and with nothing solid to just get out and going. The bird looked like it was going to make it. He had placed it gently and half-hidden in an open access garden so it could heal and go somewhere on its own terms, in its own time. Would you want someone watching you if you were still trying to put yourself together and get right? Or would you prefer some privacy until you were ready to see and navigate the world again?

He had seen souls or so he thought that, through some kind of mix up, accident, or shock, that were just waiting on the other side of life for somewhere to go. He did not know these souls but told them to go up; through a golden ceiling; and be taken on their journey by guides, angels, something positive and more knowledgeable. It had seemed to work anyway. Who knows? Maybe one day he would find out.

What was between someone like U.G. Krishnamurti, who abrasively and loudly, vehemently; vexatiously, warned that most so called mystics and gurus and leaders were scam artists and cons, and Mother Meera, who hardly ever spoke, and only now and then answered a few questions and briefly, who instead was calm and just lauding love and compassion? Maybe both were in Source, rooted in God, but like siblings that shared the exact same parents; often appeared quite differently.

The birds. The ghosts. The mystics. The day was overcast and cool. There weren’t a lot of people around. Sunday. He should be at some church somewhere he supposed for a moment. In prayer himself. Or song. Or at least community. He had found one, a non-denominational Christian group that was genuine, knowledgeable, trustworthy, and dedicated. Whose lives did follow their words. Maybe he would go. Maybe he would not.

He never knew until some unexplained moment in time, a moment perhaps fed by some timeless phenomenon that directed his life.

About the author

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet and photographer residing in the Southern Ontario area.