Is it a sign?

On finding meaning and comfort in the things we notice

Photo by Doncoombez on Unsplash

To take something as a sign:

To believe that something (such as an action or event) shows that something else exists, is true, or will happen

For the last couple of weeks, an owl has taken residence in a tree very close to our house. I haven’t seen it yet, and maybe I never will, but I hear it every evening and morning. Its call feels magical, mystical, otherworldly. And despite living very close to woodland and the South Downs, this is the first time we have had such a regular visitor since moving to our home four and a half years ago. We often have whole families of foxes playing in the garden, seagulls nesting on our neighbour’s chimney, frogs and the unfortunate gift of a couple of mice (presents from our male cat, and ones that I have been able to rescue but resulted in multiple bells being added to his collar). However, this owl is our first.

Last night, as the regular call started again for another evening, I discovered via YouTube that it is a Tawny Owl. And of course, google also loves to throw up some other information about what it means to have such an owl come and visit. Much like black cats, the presence of owls has been interpreted as being both ominous and auspicious. A sign of good things to come…or terrible. And as someone who teeters towards worrying about the future (hello longstanding impact of trauma!), I need to avoid diving too deep into anything that stirs up an all too familiar feeling on unease.

(As an aside, my tolerance for TV shows and movies that have high levels of stress and anticipation is currently at an all-time low, and I am constantly seeking out things that are gentle, predictable and comforting.)

The more positive associations with owls are signs of wisdom, transformation, secrecy and hope, which right now does feel comforting: a reminder to come back to yourself, to trust in your own inner wisdom and understanding. My search also reminded me of this video that I saw online a few years ago of an owl that regularly visited an older woman, sitting on her balcony for extended periods and only hooting when she came outside (not when someone else went out to see it). The woman’s family felt that this was their grandfather, her late husband, coming to visit and I remember feeling so moved by this interaction and their comforting belief of what the owl’s presence symbolised.

Because when you lose someone, it is understandable that you would keep looking, consciously or unconsciously, for signs that they are still out there somewhere. A sign that they existed – that they still exist – and that they are with you in whatever way or form that you believe and brings you peace.

Over the years since Orla died, a few things have happened that I continue to find hard to believe are simply just pure coincidence. I don’t know what they were or what they meant, but they left me with a profound sense of the world existing far beyond our simple cognitive understanding.

The first was when I took my first trip back into central London. I was alone, feeling very vulnerable and shaken by the fact that I was finding being on the tube so overwhelming when just a few weeks before I had navigated similar daily journeys without a second thought. As I reached the escalator to exit the station, a busker was playing a guitar and singing one of the songs from Orla’s funeral - the most meaningful one in fact, Forever Young by Bob Dylan. I stopped to listen, to check that this was actually happening, and then rushed off to my destination and share this almost unbelievable experience.

Then a couple of years ago, on the anniversary of Orla’s death, we were in the car listening to the radio, and at the exact time that we had found out that she had died, the Take That song Back for Good played. Andy and I both looked at each other in disbelief, because this was the song that was playing in the taxi when we returned to the hospital that very evening to give birth. A song so meaningful in my teenage years, now so painfully acknowledging a loss that can never be undone, playing at the exact same time six years later.

It just seemed unfathomable, and still does, that of all the songs in the whole world, these would be playing at those exact times in those places. Again, I don’t know what I think this means - maybe nothing at all. But what matters is how it made (and still makes) me feel, which is that I am connected with something so much bigger than me. I am both significant and insignificant. I know so much and yet also so little.

And this brings me comfort.

Michelle x