The old wise woman weaves sticks and stems into a wreath but does not nail it upon her door. Instead she walks into the rain wearing the wreath as a crown. Her friends pull her inside, making a fuss, but she only laughs. She says the nest upon her head has reminded her of a bird’s tale. Gather round, sit, and listen to the Crone.

It’s up to you to find what meaning you will.

 

 

There once was a daughter who was visited by birds each night in her dreams. By day she ran in circles flapping her arms and climbed trees to sing. Other children laughed.

To protect their daughter from cruel taunts, the parents locked her away inside thick walls. For she was not ordinary.

The daughter moaned both day and night. She missed the birds and their songs. On her knees, she’d hug herself and rock back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

After many years she managed an escape while her parents were away at a wedding. Fast she ran all the night long, deep into the forest, farther than anyone had ever gone.

She spent the next days building a nest for herself up high in a tree. Birds helped, bringing sticks and stems of things in their beaks. She sat with crossed legs within it once it was complete. Wind settled in the branches around her so that her hair blew about her face, and she beamed with happiness.

The parents searched for their missing daughter. Three moons passed. As they were ready to give up and go home in grief, a golden glare caught the father’s eye. He investigated and discovered a gold box at the base of a particularly lovely tree. The latch was open.

Nothing was inside.

He began to complain when a chorus of birdsong over his head drew his attention. How amazed he was to see his daughter sitting in a large nest cradled in the branches of the tree, wearing a crown of birds upon her head.

The parents called for their daughter to come down, but she only gazed at them and chirped as if quite pleased with herself.    

The father fetched a ladder and climbed up to retrieve his delinquent daughter. He was dismayed to discover he’d have to take down the nest as well, because she had been sitting in the nest for so long that sticks and stems had grown into the flesh and bones of her crossed legs and twisted up her straight spine.

The father was angry that his daughter had gone wild, with a bird’s nest atop her head. “You’re a mess!” he chided. 

She twittered and chirped.

The daughter in her nest was very heavy. Her parents were in such a bad mood that by the time they’d carried her out of the forest, they decided to set her down in the middle of the village to be scorned by passersby. So she could learn to be different than she was.

But villagers gasped in awe to see the daughter open her mouth and sing in the language of the birds. In particular, they marveled at the crown of birds upon her head, and what it might mean.

Villagers divined that here before them was a holy gift.

This appreciative take on things proved temporary. The question was raised if the daughter should not be more ordinary to be of use. To prove her worth, the daughter tweeted and chirped on behalf of the villagers to the birds of the sky.

After hearing what she had to say, the birds flew away beyond the clouds.

It came to pass that these same birds returned with gold boxes in their beaks, one for every villager. Each box bore multiple doors which could easily be opened. It was fine to take your pick.

Frightened out of their wits by the unexpected gifts, they consulted the village elders.

“We must not open the boxes,” proclaimed the elders after thinking too much. “For surely divine messages are inside. And that is scary. None of this is ordinary!”

The people agreed. “Everything depends on this,” they told one another. “Divine boxes must not be opened!” They submitted to the decree of elders that the daughter wasn’t normal but all kinds of wrong. No matter. She continued to sing on their behalf.

Gold boxes piled up beneath beds and in cupboards. Unopened.

Meanwhile, little children found fun in playing with the birds who flocked around the Bird Nest Woman. They practiced sitting as still as she, so that they also could wear a crown of birds. Not only that. Because the woman could converse with the birds, they assumed they could do the same.

And it was so.

Mothers and fathers fretted over their little ones chirping and tweeting instead of speaking. Also, the children wore crowns of birds upon their heads into the house come supper time. Mops and brooms became hot but scarce commodities. For this, the Bird Nest Woman was blamed.

One night the villagers gathered and set her nest afire. But birds flew to her rescue and lifted the nest to carry the Bird Nest Woman up and away into the heavens.

There her nest remains, forever streaking across the night sky, gold boxes trailing.

I have not forgotten you still don’t know what divine message lies inside the boxes.

It came to pass that the little children who had learned the language of birds grew up. When they asked for and received their own gold boxes as grown-ups, they went to open them. 

They peeked inside.

After this they were changed. They would never be the same. Like the Bird Nest Woman, they pleased themselves doing new and odd things as a matter of course. But it was more than that.

Because of what they now knew, they were not ordinary through and through and through.    

They realized that when it came to who and what they were in the world, the reality was contrary to what had always been assumed. For instance, the box openers insisted there was nothing at all to worry about. They simply grew curious about what to do next no matter the circumstance. They cared nothing about being in control. They only wished to create.

Instead of being worriers, they grew curiouser and curiouser.

Despite being adults, not one of them behaved as if the earth was any less delightful than any idea of heaven. They saw no difference between the two and relaxed. 

A rare few of them had hearts and minds opened so wide that they slipped into knowing they were no one in particular and also everyone in the world. This was even more relaxing. It also increased their sense of responsibility. They loved in every way.

Listen. There remain unopened gold boxes of divine messages to this day. Given, but not received. If you come upon this village at night, you will know the cottages of those who opened their boxes, for they glow upon the hillside like beacons. Golden light shoots from the windows and up through the chimneys, as if stars had burst inside. If you cross the thresholds of these cottages you will be surprised. The cottages with unopened boxes are dark and anxious. Inside those doors you will find what you expect. 

On certain nights of the year comes a reminder that divinity wishes to speak. A bird nest on fire trails gold boxes in the sky, a promise beyond the rainbow. Yet everything depends on this:

Divine boxes are meant to be opened.

Here’s the upending secret you’re sure to discover if you do:

For every humdrum thing you believe, the contrary—the not ordinary—will reveal itself to be true.

 

 

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Featured image of bird in hand by Lane Jackman

Image of brown bird by James Wainscoat

Image of gold box by Kevin Phillips