This morning, a commotion in my backyard drew me outside. A dozen or so crows were gathered in the tops of the trees near my house, restlessly calling to each other, flying back and forth between trees. There was something going on. Huddled under the shelter of my back porch, I looked up at the wet sky, scanning the other trees in my neighborhood for a hawk (the most common enemy of crows during nesting season). It’s common to see a group of crows flying above one of these great predators as it soars nonchalantly over treetops and houses, periodically changing direction as it tries to avoid the relentless attacks from the brave, dive-bombing crows. There was no hawk that I could see, so I turned to go back inside but suddenly the crows exploded from the trees, all of them in the air at once flying in frenzied circles, cawing incessantly. I looked again, just in time to see an enormous bald eagle swoop down and land on the very top of an evergreen tree across the street. I caught my breath. I was close enough to see him in detail, even through the rain. His feathers were ruffled and wet and he shook off the water, the treetop bent and shuddering under his weight. The crows were frantic. They circled and screamed and dived, some of them actually seeming to make contact, foot to feather, with this great creature. I stood motionless, my eyes fixed on the eagle, utterly entranced. And then, to my amazement, he threw back his head and began to cry. His singular, lilting screech drowned out the cacophony of panicked crows. If you’ve never heard a bald eagle call, it is truly an other-worldly sound. It’s light and almost musical, a surprisingly delicate song coming from such a huge and fearsome animal. (If you’re interested, you can go HERE and click on “Eagle Call #2″ to listen to the call that most closely resembles what I heard this morning.)

I have never seen an eagle in this neighborhood before, but for some reason I wasn’t surprised. I’ve always held the belief that amazing things are happening around us all the time, it’s just a matter of taking a moment to stop and notice them. Growing up in the Northwest, bald eagles are not uncommon to see. Although they tend to stick to the coast, many of them do venture inland towards the bigger towns. In fact, there was an eyrie in a tree on the very street where I lived the summer my marriage ended. There was a nesting pair and a baby, and the street below was always littered with sticks that were discarded from the nest. I remembered this as I watched the eagle this morning, and then remembered seeing eagles on numerous other occasions, many times extremely close up. They have swooped in front of my car several times, or flown in low over the water as I sat on the beach. As I recalled what was happening in my life around the time I saw these birds, I realized that eagles have always shown up during times of great heartache, loss, confusion, or fear. They were my neighbors immediately after I split up with my husband, for goodness sake. And this morning, only minutes before I followed the noise of the crows outside, I had been meditating in my bedroom. I was seeking guidance. All of these sightings suddenly stopped feeling coincidental.

So I did some research.

Bald eagles are one of the most well-known totem animals. Eagles represent freedom, fearlessness, and transcendence. They are said to bring clarity of vision because of their unique ability to be of two worlds, the sky and the earth. Teachings say eagles communicate directly with the Great Spirit, and to have an eagle as your totem animal is an honor and a responsibility because of your closeness to that Spirit. Eagles represent balance between heaven and earth, reminding us to fly quietly and listen to that wise Spirit voice.

There are a few different teachings about totem animals. Some say there is one animal that is “your” totem, one that follows you throughout your life and offers you guidance, protection, and teaching through your unique relationship with them. Others say we have several animals, sometimes all at once, sometimes changing as often as our life changes. Many people say you can choose your totem, picking an animal that, for whatever reason, you most identify with. And others say your animal chooses you. In any case, the realization that the eagle could be my totem animal, or spirit guide, resonates deeply. It makes sense, and it comforts me. I believe that God touches our lives in many different ways, guiding us to him, dropping hints here and there like Hansel with his pebbles. When we are distressed there are countless opportunities for us to pause, realize God has just thrown us another pebble, and get back on the right path. These God-pebbles, these amazing moments, are happening around us all the time. I want to make sure I take the time to stop and notice them.

This morning as I was trying to usher the girls out the door, Babs plopped down in the middle of the living room and decided to change her shoes. Not only were we running late, but the shoes she wanted to wear were not appropriate for her mud-puddle playground. So I told her no, do not change your shoes, we need to get going right now.

“Mo-oooom!” she wailed. “You are just so horrid!”

And, okay. Is it just me? Or is that kind of… awesome? She’s seven.

As much as I wanted to get her out the door, as much as I disapprove of being disrespectful to your family members, I just couldn’t help myself. I stopped what I was doing, turned to look at her and said, “Babs, that kind of hurt my feelings. But I have to say, I am impressed with your choice of words. That was a very grown-up insult.”

I won’t be surprised when a thesaurus winds up on her Christmas list next year. I think I may have just taught her that the more articulate the affront, the less likely she is to get in trouble. I can just picture it now: the girls are bickering because Babs refuses to share something with Zibbit. I intervene, taking away whatever object has caused the contention. Babs crumples to the floor, one hand dramatically thrown up over her eyes, and whimpers, “Oh, Mother! Ye who carried me those nine lengthy months in the cradle of thy womb! Dost thou not love me? Why, then, this wretched affliction? Why this bitter inequity?”

And I will have no choice. She’ll not only get the toy back, but I’ll probably also praise her for manipulating me so eloquently. This is going to be a problem.

In the summer, when the days are hot and my house is too much like an oven to stay home any longer, I like to drive to a nearby beach. I bring a blanket and a book and I walk out on the giant bluff that overlooks the water. I spread out on the grass and try to read, but I’m usually too overcome by the view to manage more than a few distracted pages. The water is incredible on sunny days, bright and sparkling, always littered with dozens of sailboats. The tiny white triangles bob and weave, catching a breeze and venturing out into the shipping lanes where the great freighters will blast their warning again and again until the little boats move back into the sheltered coves close to shore. Across the water are the huge blue and white mountains of the Olympic Peninsula, giant beasts who reach so far into the sky that even the clouds have to change direction as they draw near to avoid colliding with the snow-covered peaks. There are train tracks at the foot of the bluff and I can never resist counting the cars as they pass, clacking along beneath me. My favorite is always the belly of the train, the mid-section that seems interminable after the engine has disappeared around the bend and the caboose is still nowhere in sight.

Those are healing days for me, long hours spent unmoving while my skin drinks in the warm air and my eyes water in the white summer light. I go there as much as I can during our fleeting dry season and while I am there I pay very, very close attention. I know that every afternoon I spend there is another day closer to the biting chill that autumn brings, the warning of the dark winter months ahead that seem to come sooner every year. I have to remember every detail of those sun-drunk afternoons so that on days like today, when the clouds blot out the daylight and the dreariness threatens to overwhelm me, I can close my eyes and imagine myself into summer. I bless my obscenely keen power of observation as I remember how the water sighs in August and the way the grass smells fresh and edible in the dehydrated depths of summer. I remember the way the heat of the sun works through my body, easing the tension out of my muscles like a slow and patient lover. If I close my eyes and remain motionless I can actually go there for a moment and experience it fully before the sound of the rain tapping against my window chases my thoughts away and I wake back up to a chilly, damp March.

I told a friend yesterday that I don’t believe in hope. I try to avoid setting my heart on things that may never come. That sounds so bitter unless you understand that the reason I choose not to hope for things is because I have a deep and unmoving faith in the turning of the seasons. Summer is the honeymoon of life, when the world is so hopelessly in love with itself that it can’t bear to let you sleep and must wake you early each morning, singing to you through your window. Autumn is the settling in, the getting comfortable. The letting go. Winter is the emptiness of lost love, a lonely echo of days that harbor so much grief they must die again each evening at five o’clock. And spring is forgiveness. A gentle, sweet kiss that graces your cheek, rewarding you for holding on to those last shreds of faith that winter almost stole away. Spring is a waking up, when even the trees decide to begin again and are suddenly ashamed of their nakedness, blushing with the soft green of newborn leaves. Hope is a lovely idea, but it could never work for me. I am terrified of winter, the way its darkness squeezes at my chest until I can barely breathe. The real March madness is the craziness that comes at the end of those despairing winter months, when the only thing that keeps you moving is the faith that spring is almost here.

I have held my faith like a rosary, running it through my fingers so frequently that its beads have been worn smooth, their edges losing all distinction. I cling to it with such ferocity because I know that it is stronger than I am. It has gotten me here, through another frightening winter, with only two days left until the worst is over. Spring comes on Friday, which means that my beloved summer will be here soon. I will fill up again on those lusty, honeymoon days and remember that darkness, too, has a purpose. Without it we wouldn’t so love the light.

Standing naked in front of the mirror, I started with my toes. I love you, toes, I said. I like the way you’re shaped. I used to love dancing on you, balancing my entire body over you in the most beautiful, unnatural way. You’re amazingly strong. I love you, feet. You have a lovely little arch. You have taken me to the most wonderful places, places that have changed me. You will take me so much farther. I love you, ankles… Out loud, so that it would be real, I spoke to my body. I looked at myself under the soft light in the hallway and I went over everything, each part, leaving nothing out. I spent the most time on places that I usually avoid looking at, the parts of me that I have learned to hide under my clothes. I love you, stomach. Your skin tells the story of the day each of my babies were born. I was reborn on those days, too. Two entire lives began inside of you, grew there protected and warm until it was safe for them to leave and start their own journeys on this planet. You did an amazing thing. I love you, breasts. You look different than you used to, and that’s ok. It was you alone that sustained my babies in their first months of life. You were the link between their bodies and mine, the agent of the most beautiful, spiritual bond I have ever known. I love you, shoulders…

I spoke to my hands, my neck, my lips. I looked myself in the eyes and told them how beautiful they are. When I had gone over every physical part, I moved on to my mind, my heart, and my spirit. I told myself the things I have always wanted to hear someone say, and I believed them. I forgave myself for hating this body for so long and I told myself that things are going to be different, now. You see, I have spent the last twelve years hoping that I would wake up one morning and float out of bed, the weight of shame and disgust having been suddenly removed from my heart. And it’s true that I have slowly accepted parts of myself as the years have gone by, forgiving my arms for looking like gangly iron rods because of the dozens of people they have comforted in their embrace, letting go of the hatred I have always had for my hair and caring for it instead, allowing it to make me feel young and feminine. I have learned to love parts of me, but never all. I avert my eyes in the shower, washing blindly and focusing my mind elsewhere so I don’t have to pay attention to the places I’m ashamed of. As I do this I imagine my daughters grown up, healthy and strong, bathing with closed eyes so they don’t have to see their bodies. And that thought makes me cry. I need to have overcome this so that when the day comes that I find one of them weeping into her pillow over how hard it is to become a woman in a world that teaches you that who you are is never enough, I will have something to say to her. I need to have overcome this so that I can forge a new path in the legacy of my family’s womanhood and teach my daughters from a new handbook. I think it’s entirely possible that if I’m able to do this, to truly love my body and who I am, their pillows just might stay dry.

My body is my ticket here, my all-access pass to existence. I have abused it terribly. Other people have hurt it in unspeakably horrible ways. And I have let the shame of it all taint the wonder of this life-ticket, crumpling it up and shoving it deep into my pocket, forgetting that if I care for it tenderly and keep it safe it can take me to places I never even dreamed. I wish I could say that I have such a deep feeling of self-worth that I have chosen to love myself for my sake alone, and that being a better mother is just a fabulous side effect. But I’m not strong enough for that yet. Someday, perhaps. But for now, it’s enough to love my daughters so fiercely that I am willing to look at myself through the eyes of their mother, loving this life and this body because of them. I’ll mother the three of us. I’ll teach us all the things I was never taught so at the end of it all, when we’re old and withered, our tickets will stamped and creased and stained beyond recognition. They will have the markings of a life fully lived… and they will be our most treasured possessions.

Amazing things are happening in my garden, and I can barely contain my glee. Spring! Is coming!

I have no idea how I made it through another winter here, but better days are on the way.