A hawk’s lesson: how to stop scattering and start seeing

The sun was just ris­ing over the dew-cov­ered hill. Snuggled in my favorite chair in the sun­room, I was try­ing unsuc­cess­ful­ly to med­i­tate. My thoughts were scat­tered like dan­de­lion seeds in the wind. Focus, I whis­pered to myself for the thou­sandth time.

I thought about how lit­tle I still under­stand the sit­u­a­tion in Iran, won­dered what the bal­ance was in being informed and pro­tect­ing my peace. I men­tal­ly prac­ticed the open­ing gui­tar lick in Edge of Seventeen. I list­ed five-let­ter words that would be good Wordle open­ers. Beach. Audio. Store.

I thought about what I want­ed for lunch, remind­ed myself to call in a pre­scrip­tion at the phar­ma­cy, rehearsed what I would say in my yoga class. I thought about cheese, about co-reg­u­la­tion, about clouds.

Just like the white-winged dove, sings a song sounds like she’s singing. I cir­cled back to Stevie Nicks.

I cat­a­stro­phized, com­pared, planned, pon­dered, strate­gized, stressed, remem­bered, and rem­i­nisced. I did not — could not — focus.

With a dra­mat­ic sigh of exas­per­a­tion, I opened my eyes and saw my hawk roost­ing in the large tree at the edge of the prop­er­ty. Well, he’s not my hawk. Hawks belong only to them­selves. But this mag­nif­i­cent bird of prey hangs around Quisenberry Lane a lot. There’s a tree with a per­fect V‑shaped perch over­look­ing an abun­dant field, full of deli­cious voles and rab­bits and mice. My hawk is eas­i­ly two feet tall from head to talon, with a big white bel­ly, gor­geous red tail, and a wingspan almost as wide as I am tall.

I think back to moments before, how my mind was flood­ed with noise. I mis­tak­en­ly believe I can mul­ti­task, for­get­ting that noth­ing mean­ing­ful was ever made with­out full atten­tion. I scat­ter my aware­ness across ten things at once, as if pro­duc­tiv­i­ty were a virtue and pres­ence were a luxury. 

But my hawk knows bet­ter. He hunts by nar­row­ing his gaze until what real­ly mat­ters is all that remains. There is a kind of clar­i­ty in a hawk’s gaze that silences every­thing else. Hawks have some of the best eye­sight of any ani­mal on the plan­et and have a visu­al acu­ity more than eight times greater than a human. It’s all focus, no fidget.

And then he launch­es, wings wide, shad­ow slic­ing across the fields with pur­pose and pre­ci­sion. He swoops and is once again aloft, some­thing small and fur­ry in his talons. 

I close my eyes and return to my breath.

May I be will­ing to perch with patience, to let go of the dis­trac­tions that keep me cir­cling, to fly toward what tru­ly feeds me.