On the windowsill by my desk, lying lightly between a prism and a small china bowl, are two black-and-white feathers that to me symbolize courage. It’s crazy how they came to be there—crazy because their significance grew from a personal superstition. They were dropped in our yard by a pileated woodpecker, a grand, lovely bird with a huge bill and a bright red crest.
Twenty years ago I was living quite happily in this house, on an island tucked in piney woods, with Jeff and our young son. My life was exactly as I wanted it. I loved my work, my family, and our home on the Outer Banks. And then, out of the blue, Jeff asked me if I’d be willing to move. There was a job that interested him in another state.
I began waking each morning with a sense of dread. Would this be our last season in this home? Would I ever again find the same sweet sense of community? One day I noticed a pileated woodpecker haunting our yard. “Go away!” I hissed. But it stayed around, lurking among the trees like the spirit of change.
Who can say what small seeds might harbor the genesis of our fears, or why? I’d always loved pileated woodpeckers. Before then I’d considered spotting one to be akin to a glimpse of God. Instead I started looking quickly away whenever I saw one or heard its hammering. If I don’t look at it, I thought, it can’t affect me.
As it turned out, Jeff didn’t get the job, and we stayed put all these years. Every time I came home from a trip away, I heaved a deeply contented sigh.
But there were costs to my decision to keep change at arm’s length. Later in his career Jeff’s sense of purpose began to falter—and I couldn’t help wondering if my reticence to relocate had held him back. What good things might have happened if I’d been willing to accompany him on a new adventure?
All this came swimming up to the surface a couple of years ago when I found these two black-and-white feathers lying near the back steps. I picked them up and scanned the trees. The woodpecker who’d dropped them was nowhere in sight.
I brushed them against my cheeks and took them inside. It was time—past time—for me to open to the possibility of change.
Ever since, those feathers have lain on the windowsill or the edge of my desk. Occasionally I’d eye them with a sense of trepidation. Other days I’d pick them up and stroke them, daring them to unleash their power. Eight months ago I noticed they’d disappeared. I spotted them under my desk and brought them back into the light.
And change found me.
Our quiet home is now a jumble of packing boxes and possessions in various stages of being sorted. In a few short days, we will load everything into a truck bound for a small village in coastal Maine. It was not supposed to happen now. Who moves to Maine in the dead of winter? But a young couple we love want to buy our house. If we turn it over to them, they’ll infuse it with a new energy. Why not? So we told them that if they could sell their house (in the middle of a swamp, five miles down a road that floods) we’d sell them ours. We figured it would take them months.
They sold it in three days.
As we’ve started packing, I’ve come to realize how strongly I’ve fused with the spirit of this house. I know exactly how the sunlight will play across the living room floor in every season. I gaze out my study window into trees that during my time here have doubled in girth. How will I ever be able to close the door and walk away? Several times a week Jeff and I look at each other and ask, “What in God’s name are we doing?”
But I know that if I give up this chance in favor of my steady, settled life here, in a few years I’ll be disappointed, maybe even ashamed of myself. All arrows are pointing us to Maine. We have good friends there. We love the culture and the change of seasons. A place for us to stay has become available—almost magically, it seems—and we’ve found a lovely little piece of land to buy, in a community where there’s very little affordable property for sale. How can we not go? So even as my emotions seesaw from excitement to sorrow, I sort through the possessions in another closet and pack another few boxes.
I know I’ll have some bad moments. Last week I talked with a friend who moved to another state to be with a new love, only to have the relationship fall apart after five weeks. “All the right doors had opened,” he said. “It was like life was telling me I needed to follow that path.” Broken-hearted, he returned to his old town and spent months sleeping on friends’ couches.
As he spoke, I could feel my heart rate rise. “That won’t be my story,” my mind screamed. “Everything’s going to be great for us.”
But honestly, there’s no way to know. All I can do is take a chance and go. If misfortune comes crashing down—well, at least I won’t be living in a rut.
And my friend’s story seems to be edging toward a happy ending. Feeling sorry for him, his ex-wife cooked him a few meals. They began spending time together, and appreciating what they’d first loved about each other. Who knows where it might lead?
So each morning I go out to the yard, to a beloved grove of trees, and meditate one more time. I try to push aside my vast to-do list in favor of stillness. When peace has settled on me, I go inside to sort through books and ready another carload of clothes or unwanted trinkets for the local thrift store. I brush the woodpecker feathers lightly against my lips. And I think of where I will carefully pack them to carry with me, away from the wide beaches of the Outer Banks and into the snowy north.
I wrote this a few weeks ago, and we are on our way to Maine.
Wishing you all peace and new adventures during this holiday season and the coming year.
Posted