seemed to me that Susannah watched me carefully throughout the day. Yet how could that be, with her blind eyes? She held herself attentive and alert in other ways, as though taking in all the clues that my movements and sighs and pace of work could give her. At day’s end, instead of asking me to read another of Anna’s letters, she spoke the question that had been reflected all day in her behavior. “Gabriela, I can tell that something is troubling you. What is it?” And so I recounted my dream to her, with as much detail as I had courage to share. For a while she sat in a quiet peace, as though settling something within herself. Then she turned back to me.
“Brie, Anna has been gone from us for eight years now. We have missed her and grieved her, but we have peace about her passing. It seems that in carrying that pewter cross, you have been given a connection to her story, perhaps even to her memories. Do not let them weigh you down.
“After long years of living, it seems to me that we spend so much time trying to sort things out inside ourselves, hiding them or fighting them or even avoiding them. The key is to quiet the competing voices and listen deeply for God. Have you asked him lately what he is asking of you? Have you inquired why this connection with Anna exists? Do not run from this gift; run toward it and see what might grow out of its turmoil.
“You have been such a help to me of late, as the colder weather draws near. I know that I have thanked you, but you also haven’t taken much Sabbath rest in your desire to serve and assist me. Take a day tomorrow, Gabriela. It looks to be a fair one. Take a day to yourself for listening, for opening yourself to the Lord’s voice.”
I felt surprised at her suggestion. I wondered if perhaps she wanted a day to herself and this gave her an excuse. But as I watched her face, she smiled, and I felt her growing love for me. She held it out as gift. Why should I look further?
The day dawned clear and mild, one of those unexpectedly lovely autumn days that shine with a clear and bracing internal light. I packed a small lunch and made ready. As I approached the door, Susannah called my name. “Gabriela, blessings on your journey.”
“I’ll be back by sunset,” I clarified.
“I know that. It’s just that some short days lead us on longer journeys than a year ever reveals when we are not paying attention.”
I headed off down the track, past the barn, then much later past the tree where I had unsuccessfully hidden myself from Allan. A few hundred yards onward, the way broadened, and I saw that it divided, leading away in two directions. Which way should I take? I paused, listening to see if God would offer any guidance. Suddenly, a sound off to my right made me jump. It was only an irritable squirrel, chiding me for surprising him, but somehow I saw it as invitation: take the right-hand path.
Bedraggled weeds congested both the edges and the center of the worn pathway. It seemed this was not the main thoroughfare. The track wound down, with dappled shadow, and I was glad of my cloak and the unseasonably warm day. I had walked perhaps a mile and a half when the way opened out onto a promontory, with a few twisted trees and shrubs but mostly a bleak terrain. I gazed out over a wild ocean and jagged stacks that loomed and threatened for miles. This is what I would have come upon in my fragile boat had I not stopped at Susannah’s cove. Is this what took Anna’s life, I wondered? The view was stunning and arresting, yet also disturbing. Oddly I knew that it was here I was to take my lunch, to sit a while and listen for God.
I found a somewhat sheltered spot underneath and behind the largest tree, now bare of its leaves, and spread out my cloak as a blanket. From here, I could see only glimpses of the ocean; mostly I saw the shaded road I had taken and a more secluded pathway leading further on. For the first quarter-hour or so, I simply delighted in the day, the sweetness of the jam, the crispness of Susannah’s bread, the quiet call of a bird not far away. I assumed that it would be a scavenger, looking for crumbs, one of the raucous gulls so familiar to coastal dwellers. I turned and looked, and my face lit up in wonder.
Not fifty feet away, settled on an isolated outcropping, my eyes took in the majesty and grace of an albatross. Twice while growing up, I had heard tales of these birds of good fortune, these long-journeying travelers who spend their lives riding the wind. But only sailors had ever caught a glimpse. Albatross almost never come in to land, except on distant, craggy islands where they mate for life and raise their young. Why was this one here? I watched in wonder, trying to see if it was injured. Fortunately, it gave the impression of peaceful resting, without pain or trouble. Then it turned its head and looked right at me, fixing me with a direct and clear stare.
And suddenly I saw things from his perspective, the memory of a long sea-journey, broken only by feeding and the brief riding of waves when the wind was too still to carry him further. The memories held a mesmerizing quality: sea and wind and sky, sea and wind and sky, sea and wind and sky . . . And then, unexpectedly, a boat, a small dinghy with five figures, bedraggled, careworn, thin, and shivering. They look up as he passes, and one of the men finds the strength to smile: “An albatross means good luck, you know.” And once again, sea and wind and sky, sea and wind and sky.
The albatross blinks, and I am back on the promontory. I am struck by his self-contained beauty, by a grace of solitude and peace with himself. I expect him to be troubled by my presence, yet somehow his gaze feels like benediction, an extending of his own peace to encircle and embrace me. “Consider the birds of the air . . .” I think, and then discard it. This is so clearly a bird of the sea, with a deeper, more resonant way about him than his tree-dwelling cousins. He is not hurried or troubled. Time means little; his ways are tidal, decided by air currents and temperatures. And journeying is his lifework. I want to reach out, to stroke the feathers of this wise and gentle creature. I realize that my hand has already extended, slowly, carefully.
The albatross cocks his head, puzzled for a moment, though not threatened. I have nothing to offer, only my fascination. As though on cue, his wings suddenly extend, broad and bold and beautiful. Ah! I expect him to launch on the wind and head seaward once more, but instead he takes a short, rather awkward flight and comes to rest just inches in front of me. Grace: grace of movement, grace of presence, the grace of a creature so fully in tune with himself, with his surroundings. He fixes two brilliant eyes on me once more and settles his wings back in, tucking them with a flourish. I almost expect him to speak.
I smile, a radiant smile of a kind I have not known since my sister’s death. It is as though he calls it forth from me, this joy, this sense of being fully here, now, in this place, in the right place. We are born of different worlds, and yet somehow there is communion, a meeting in this sun-blessed moment of autumn light. I notice that he has a distinctive marking just past the crown of his head: several dark feathers among the shining white, shaped somewhat like a shell.
Without thinking, I begin to sing, an old hymn my mother taught me one day long ago that speaks of the sea and long journeys, of the God who never forsakes even in storm. I do not know if I am singing to the bird or to God or to myself, but the words themselves lift me in spirit like wings on my heart, words of praise, of truth, of the certainty of sea and of storm and yet of faith within and through it all. I sense that the bird rests in the sound of the song, watching, receiving, loving. How can it be loving? And yet there is a deep, abiding sense of being connected to this giant-winged beauty for this moment, this space, ours alone.
I sing all the verses I know, wishing there were more. I repeat the first verse, coming full circle, a tidal turn, a coming home. And then silence: a long, rich silence that is both a listening and a speaking. I do not know his language and he does not speak mine, but we find kinship in this place apart.
I extend my other arm, as though I too were a bird, reaching for the sky. I realize as he extends his wings that his reach outdistances mine by several feet. What majesty! Then he nods his head
