Why Are There So Many Falcons in My Life?

The first falcon I noticed had a mouse riding on its back. The mouse’s name is Soma, and she’s the heroine of one of the books I’m writing (I know, a mouse? Really? I hear that critic too). Years ago I told my children this story, conjuring it out of the fog of double-toddler bedtime. It’s straight brainstem shit, my smart brain was crying in the shower I think.

In 2019 I wrote this story down, shat out 150,000 words of my first fiction, loved every second of it, and decided this is what I wanted to do. Then Covid, and you know. I’m on my “second draft,” but it’s really an entirely new first draft.

So falcons.

Soma’s late mother was the Queen of the mice and her moniker is “The Falcon.” Soma lives under the shadow of the legend of her late mother, referring to herself as “The Guppy” by comparison.

When writing it, I thought for sure this Ann Lamontesque seizure would be met with red. But it persists, like a tiny ember slowly burning through your jeans and touching your thigh. There it is!

Over time, they’ve come to mean something more, and have slowly inched their way closer to the center of this story.

The Next Three Falcons

Then the next three falcons. These birds told me it was time I started paying attention. At the least, I hope you find these paintings beautiful pieces of art. But it’s the story of how they came to be that boggles my mind.

Each of these works was created at our home in Tempe, AZ. We host an art night where our friends come together and create. My partner dreams up a still life (she’s the visual artist) concept and sets out watercolor and pencils. We do a quick fifteen-minute meditation together, pop the bottles of wine, and start creating.

It’s very open. You can write, play music, paint, whatever. The only thing you can’t do is not participate in creating.

On August 11th, we explored the idea of our connectedness with our ancestors. Our friends brought things, a calligraphy set, some prepped watercolor washed pages, and of course, a wooden carving of a falcon.

We each took turns sketching or coloring and adding to each other’s works. The point was to create art that could only happen in community, in the context of being connected with others. So much of our creation sensibility is touched by the very capitalist notions of individualism. It was eye-opening to erase the ego out of the process and just have fun.

After that night, I stared at these paintings for a week. I felt a story in them, some sense of connectedness they shared. The order felt important to me. Here’s that story.

First Falcon — Far Left — Awakening

First Falcon belongs at the left, at the beginning of the story. This one is all feather and beak and claw. It’s feral and standing in nature. This falcon is fully a falcon, except for the hint of consciousness in its eye. It’s looking at the symbols that mean “Interbeing” and “ancestors.”

To me, this bird represents awakening. It’s the moment we stop scratching around in the dirt for for grubs and guts and gaze into the sky, seeing perhaps for the first time. We see the connectedness of all things and somehow we know that it is these connections, these electric currents that flow through space and time, that represent consciousness. The Creator. The Source. The One that holds us all together.

We’re feral, but our eye sees something new, etched into the sky and we can’t help but notice it.

2nd Falcon — Middle — Struggle

This is Second Falcon, and the one that belongs in the middle. It’s the awakened bird, having now moved through time. Evolution. Furtherance. Perhaps metaphysical, perhaps physical. There is a human quality to it. While First Falcon was all feather and beak, Second Falcon is drawn down with smooth lines. It’s domesticated and surrounded by stuff that isn’t its natural habitat.

Second Falcon is not quite sure about something. Its shoulders are tight with anxiety, its eye’s are darkened and its face drawn. We understand this one.

The symbol for heaven/sky is in its mind, but if you look closely, it’s fading with the watercolor that came after. This is because interbeing in its chest is ruptured. It has been shot through with white, the polar bear canvas naked behind it.

Second Falcon is wounded. Domesticated and nervous it’s sitting on a little box trying to be taller.

I see so much of our existence today in this bird. Our communities are ruptured, our sense of self, and our sense of the oneness we have with others. It feels like we’re watching heaven fade before us. Every last square inch of our lives are being monetized, every point of human connection now filtered through an algorithm designed to maximize shareholder profit.

Our sense of each other is warped and ruptured. We don’t trust each other. We don’t like each other. We’ve lost sight of our interbeing, the reality of our one-ness with each other and our ancestors. The Algorithms that sit between our relationships are destroying us, from the inside out.

Second Falcon tells us this and reflects the pain we feel today.

Third Falcon — Right — Rest

I’m glad for Third Falcon. My friend and I were both handed this painting at some point in the night and told to make our mark on it. We both looked at it — separately from each other — and put it down. This one radiated energy. I felt a force around it that I couldn’t penetrate. It was done.

Third Falcon is at peace. It’s empty and fading off the page. It’s shot through with warm yellow light. And beyond the veil is the Divine watching over it, watching over all the falcons through space and time. And stamped onto the feminine likeness of this Divine is the symbol for interbeing and ancestors.

A few details I love. First, notice how part of the Divine is breaking through the veil into the falcon’s reality. The nose and the mouth. The parts of the body where breath is drawn. And the curvy lines next to the symbols look like music. A cello perhaps, or a bass clef. The ancient Nordic people didn’t separate the word soul and song. To them, it was the same thing. Soulsong. The spirit of our ancestors is carried through song.

Light on one side. Emptiness. Peace. Our ancestors watching us from beyond, their soulsong breathing through the veil that separates us.

Third Falcon is my favorite painting, maybe ever. It was created by three separate hands, all delighting in each other’s work and adding their unique voice. None of this was intentional. None of this has ego attached to it. At the end, we all decided nobody should sign these because they don’t belong to anybody.

This painting feels like a miracle to me, and I hope you see it too. It gives me so much hope right now and I don’t know why.

One final note

These paintings were not created with this intent. The process was haphazard and hilarious, sketched and laughed over with dear friends. They were passed around between professional artists and novices alike.

Their existence is a song of its meaning.

They tell us our togetherness is hurting. Our sense of each other is broken. But there is healing and hope. When we set aside our egos, empty ourselves, and let our ancestors breath life into us, we are at rest.

This is the story I found in these falcons. I don’t know what any of it means. I just know it’s been warming my heart recently. Maybe it can do the same for you.