Nature is Our Greatest Teacher: Lessons from a Raven

“Nature is our greatest teacher – of surrendering, of allowing, of simply being.” – Alexandra Domelle

Surrendering. Allowing. Simply Being. I struggle with all three: surrendering to something bigger than myself (God, the Universe, Prachymama) and recognizing that I am not in control; allowing life to progress in a natural, organic manner as opposed to forcing my own agenda; simply being with what is instead of constantly striving for something more. This was made ever more apparent to me with the visit of a small raven fledgling…Sheila we named her. 

On a Sunday evening a few weeks back, two baby ravens made their way into my parents yard. We are not totally sure how they arrived, as they quickly exhibited an inability to fly. Perhaps they jumped from their nest in an attempt to take flight and were blown into our yard by a strong gust of wind. We watched in amusement for the first couple of days as the two birds hopped about, testing their strength as they jumped through the rocks and bushes, flapping their wings in determination but never making it very far. 

My Mom was particularly invested in their success. She called the organization Think Wild to ask for advice on how best to support and protect the two birds. She asked our neighbors to keep their cats indoors while the two younglings learned to fly. Fortunately, their own mother perched herself in a nearby tree and made frequent flybys. Her deafening caws were enough to scare off any potential predator in my mind. Tom and Sheila, as my father dubbed them, played about, bopping one another on the head and never straying far from the other’s company. 

At first, I found my mother’s investment into the lives of these two, wild birds to be a bit silly. I mean, she slept in the yard to ensure they were safe! But, as I watched the two babies exploring the small world that is our garden, seeing such life radiate from them as they played and tested their own limits, I too became attached. I found myself peeking out the window throughout my work day to check their progress, cheering them on, excited for their eventual success. 

On Wednesday morning we awoke to discover that Tom was gone. There was no sign of foul play, and his strength had appeared to be developing faster than Sheila’s anyhow. He’d done it – left the proverbial nest and flown away. I was happy for him and feeling encouraged that Sheila would now have even more motivation to take flight herself. 

Late Wednesday afternoon, two ravens flew overhead. We were certain it was the mother and Tom, shooting down words of encouragement to Sheila. Sheila cawed back in return. I felt a longing in her voice, a longing to join them up in the sky…to not be alone any longer. I was hopeful that come Thursday morning we’d wake to an empty yard. 

Unfortunately, Thursday morning found Sheila nestled below a bush, still unable to fly. In fact, Sheila no longer appeared to even be trying to fly. Instead, she teettered about our yard, pausing for long periods of time to rest beneath the lilacs or amidst the leaves of a shrub. Occasionally she’d send a light “caw” up into the sky, but this call for connection went unreturned. Fearing she was perhaps growing weak from hunger or thirst, we laid out some food and water, but she didn’t appear interested in either. 

As the day wore on, it became clear, Sheila wasn’t going to fly. Not today and not ever. Sheila was dying. I didn’t want to believe it, praying instead for a miraculous recovery. But at 3PM, she drew her last breath. Her body lay stiff…eyes drained of the light that had been there just a day before. 

We dug a hole in the backyard and buried this raven who’d made her way into each of our hearts. We said a prayer for her, wishing that her next life would be long and fulfilling.

I know it sounds strange, but I took the death of this wild bird hard. I felt angry, sad and confused. Why had her mother abandoned her that last day, leaving her to die alone? This touched upon my own fears of abandonment, of being left alone to suffer in my own time of need. Had we done something wrong? Could we have done more to help her? I felt deeply just how powerless I was to do anything to have changed the course of this sweet bird’s life. This frustrated me. 

Yet – that is the teachings of nature, isn’t it? We must surrender, we must allow, we must simply be with what is. Perhaps that is why Sheila’s mother hadn’t returned. She had already surrendered to death. She was allowing life to take its natural course. She was simply being with this world exactly as it is. 

While I still grieve Sheila’s short life, these realizations bring me a sort of solace. 

We have so much to learn from the natural world. Life is cyclical – there is birth and there is death. And we have very little control over how and why things end as they do. We spend so much time fighting the current – working to exhibit more power, resisting change or struggle, always pushing for something better. And yet, nature teaches that we do the exact opposite – surrender, allow and simply be. 

In my own life, this means surrendering my desire for control. Some things are simply beyond me and I am wasting precious energy trying to change them. It is time I surrender, time that I ask for help, and trust in something bigger than myself. It means allowing for life to unfold on its own, not always feeling like I must push or manipulate all the areas of my life so as to make it fit into the perfect little box that I imagine. It means simply being, flowing with my life a bit more. 

What about you? Is there an area of your life where it may serve you to surrender? What might you allow, verse continue to resist? How might you practice simply being with what is? I encourage you to contemplate these questions over the long weekend. Get out in nature, see what you learn.