My older sister Karen and I have an affinity for Scotland. We lived in the capital city of Edinburgh when she was three and I was newborn, when our American Military father was stationed at Kirk Newton (1952-1954), and our young mother, as might be imagined, had her hands very full dealing with a new culture, a foreign-sounding language, and two wee bairns. I introduce this piece with that ancient history simply to set the stage for what happened next.

Karen, being ever mindful of our Celtic connection, told me about a Scots spiritual teacher named Kyle Gary. She said she loved watching his YouTube videos because he was young, handsome, upbeat, quirky, sincere, enthusiastic, and…you know…that brogue, which could make any woman, no matter her age, swoon.

So, of course, I had to check him out too.

I found Kyle Gray to be very charming and so positive minded that I felt more hopeful for humanity after listening to him talk about guardian angels.  During an interview, he had spoken about ways to know that an angel was leaving a message. One of those things, as another speaker mentioned, might be something like finding a white feather where there ought not to be a white feather, like inside a building or on an office desk.

Yeah!  Yeah! I thought. I get it. Super cool. I believe it too. Why not? I believe in anything that will give us a reason to feel more grounded, truly protected, and dearly loved.

That next evening, because the ubiquitous pollen levels had dropped considerably after a big rainstorm, I risked going outside for a full-fledged walk, albeit with my silk mask, head scarf, hooded rain jacket, sunglasses, etc… I am certain that I looked like a zombie on the loose, but I was thrilled to be out and about after weeks of staying indoors in order to remain well. I breathed in the fresh air, taking slow, deep, mindful inhalations and exhalations. I walked my usual half-mile, observing everything around me with glee. On my return, trekking back on the opposite side of the street, there in the middle of the road, unnoticed before, I saw what I thought to be a piece of paper and I moved over to pick it up and place it in the next garbage can along the way. BUT…

It was not a scrap of trash. It was a large snow white feather.

Now I have found many feathers on my walks along that same road over the years: buzzards, hawks, doves, mockingbirds, wild turkeys, domestic turkeys, but never anything so big nor anything purely white.

Yes, I glanced up toward heaven. Yes, I looked around in the event that I might spy an angel hidden in the brush or behind a tree. Yes, I felt inordinately special and immeasurably graced.

When I returned home, I took the white feather into my meditation room and sat with it, doing some simple prayers, asking for answers or for clarification. All I heard was “pay attention to what a feather represents.” All right, then. Flight. Freedom. Lightness of being. That appeared to be enough of an angelic message for me.

As I ended my session, I searched for the right place to put the feather. Ought I hang it from the wall below the gong? Put in in the bronze lap of the woman sitting in lotus pose? Place it front and center in the space where I served my tea? But like metal drawn to a magnet, the feather pulled toward a small glass jar covered in buckskin and beads, upon which, many years ago, I had created a single word: “Dad.”

Every day now, it makes me smile, and reminds me where I came from.

~LJ