owl feathers

I opened my back gate to look for my cats, and something white caught my eye in the dry grass. As I walked closer, I saw two feathers—at first I trusted my instinct that they belonged to an owl. Later, I convinced myself they must be red-tailed hawk, until a friend gently corrected me: these were owl feathers all along. Great Horned Owl. What a lesson in trusting my senses and verifying what I think I know.

Owl feathers aren’t shed by accident. They arrive like midnight messengers:

To invite stillness in the dark.
To remind us to trust what we feel, even when it flies under the radar.
To teach us that wisdom often comes in silence.

Their broad vanes speak in soft patterns—shadow and light in harmony, like pause and breath, like forgetting and then remembering again.

One feather for mystery.
One for clarity.

Together, they say:
“Honor your instincts. Embrace the unknown. You were born to see beyond the surface.”

Lately, I’ve been feeling a quiet release—from trying to control myself.

I see now how I’ve tried to control things in order to feel more loved.
Tried to manage my behavior to be more “acceptable,” more “lovable.”
It hasn’t worked. And it never really did.

It’s surprising to notice the moments when I’ve lost or released control—when I can’t force myself to do what I don’t want to do.

When I lose control, I lose myself in the moment.
And I become the most me.

It’s vulnerable.
What if the “most me” is too much or not enough? What if people don’t like me?

And yet… I survive.

There is nothing actually wrong with the most me.
That doesn’t mean I won’t worry about losing love sometimes.

What will be, will be.
Not everyone is for everyone.
I can’t contort myself for everyone.

It’s a slow unveiling—this lifelong dance between performance and authenticity.
Always unfolding. Always evolving. Always shifting. Always deepening.

Waxing and waning, like the moon shares its light in the darkest hours.