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A parliament of owls

Detail from The Falling Star by Catherine Hyde

Studio 1

At this time of year the mornings are dark, so I climb the hill to my studio on a pathway lit by moonlight and stars. I unlock the cabin, light the lamps, and Tilly settles sleepily on the couch. Behind us, the oak and ash of the woods are silhouettes cut out of black paper; below, the village lies in a bowl of darkness, the outline of the moor on its rim. I can hear water in the stream close by, and owls calling from the woodland beyond. The sun rises late, the days are short, and the owls are a regular presence.

In the myths and lore of the West Country, the owl is a messenger from the Underworld, and a symbol of death, initiation, dark wisdom. She is an uncanny bird, a companion to hedgewitches, sorcerers, and the Triple Goddess in her crone aspect. There are owls in the woods all year long, of course, but winter is when I know them best: as I climb through the dark guided by a small torch, and my dog, and the owls' parliament.

Studio 2

In her essay "Owls," Mary Oliver writes of her search for the birds in the woods near her home -- describing her quest, and the passage from winter to spring, in prose that takes my breath away:

The Wild Night Ascending by Catherine Hyde"Finally the earth grows softer, and the buds on the trees swell, and the afternoon becomes a wider room to roam in, as the earth moves back from the south and the light grows stronger. The bluebirds come back, and the robins, and the song sparrows, and great robust flocks of blackbirds, and in the fields blackberry hoops put on a soft plum color, a restitution; the ice on the ponds begins to thunder, and between the slices is seen the strokes of its breaking up, a stutter of dark lightning. And then the winter is over, and again I have not found the great horned owl's nest.

"But the owls themselves are not hard to find, silent and on the wing, with their ear tufts flat against their heads as they fly and their huge wings alternately gliding and flapping as they maneuver through the trees. Athena's owl of wisdom and Merlin's companion, Archimedes, were screech owls surely, not this bird with the glassy gaze, restless on the bough, nothing but blood on its mind.

"When the great horned is in the trees its razor-tipped toes rasp the limb, flakes of bark fall through the air and land on my shoulders while I look up at it and listen to the heavy, crisp, breathy snapping of its hooked beak. The screech owl I can imagine on my wrist, also the delicate saw-whet that flies like a big soft moth down by Great Pond. And I can imagine sitting quietly before that luminous wanderer the snowy owl, and learning, from the white gleam of its feathers, something about the Arctic. But the great horned I can't imagine in any such proximity -- if one of those should touch me, it would be the center of my life, and I must fall. They are the pure wild hunters of our world. They are swift and merciless upon the backs of rabbits, mice, voles, snakes, even skunks, even cats sitting in dusky yards, thinking peaceful thoughts. I have found the headless bodies of rabbits and bluejays, and known it was the great horned owl that did them in, taking the head only, for the owl has an insatiable craving for the taste of brains. I have walked with prudent caution down paths at twilight when the dogs were puppies. I know this bird. If it could, it would eat the whole world.

Studio 3

"In the night," writes Oliver, "when the owl is less than exquisitely swift and perfect, the scream of the rabbit is terrible. But the scream of the owl, which is not of pain and hopelessness, and the fear of being plucked out of the world, but of the sheer rollicking glory of the death-bringer, is more terrible still. When I hear it resounding through the woods, and then the five black pellets of its song dropping like stones into the air, I know I am standing at the edge of the mystery, in which terror is naturally and abundantly part of life, part of even the most becalmed, intelligent, sunny life -- as, for example, my own. The world where the owl is endlessly hungry and endlessly on the hunt is the world in which I too live. There is only one world."

Studio 4

Sleepy Tilly

Like Oliver, I strive to create and inhabit a "becalmed, intelligent, sunny" life -- fashioned from ink and paint, old storybooks, and rambles through the hills with the hound -- but darkness, mortality, and mystery are the flip side of that coin. I remember this during the winter months, on the dark path up to my studio. I remember it when my body fails and death glides by on a horned owl's wings; it does not come to my wrist, not yet, thank god, but some day it must, and it will. I remember it when the dark daily news intrudes on my studio solitude, demanding response, outrage, activism. I resist the dark. My life has known too much dark and I want no more of it. I'm a creature of dawn...but the nightworld is our world too. There is only one world.

"Most people are afraid of the dark," writes Rebecca Solnit (in a beautiful essay on Virginia Woof). "Literally, when it comes to children; while many adults fear, above all, the darkness that is the unknown, the unseeable, the obscure. And yet the night in which distinctions and definitions cannot be readily made is the same night in which love is made, in which things merge, change, become enchanted, aroused, impregnated, possessed, released, renewed.

The Soft Hush of Night by Catherine Hyde

"As I began writing this essay," Solnit continues, "I picked up a book on wilderness survival by Laurence Gonzalez and found in it this telling sentence: 'The plan, a memory of the future, tries on reality to see if it fits.' His point is that when the two seem incompatible we often hang onto the plan, ignore the warnings reality offers us, and so plunge into trouble. Afraid of the darkness of the unknown, the spaces in which we see only dimly, we often choose the darkness of closed eyes, of obliviousness. Gonzalez adds, 'Researchers point out that people tend to take any information as confirmation of their mental models. We are by nature optimists, if optimism means that we believe we see the world as it is. And under the influence of a plan, it’s easy to see what we want to see. It’s the job of writers and explorers to see more, to travel light when it comes to preconception, to go into the dark with their eyes open.' "

That is indeed our job. So I climb through the dark, and open myself to its beauty, its terrors. And I sit down to write.

The Running of the Deer by Catherine Hyde

The art today is by Catherine Hyde, an extraordinary painter based in Cornwall. Catherine trained at Central School of Art in London, and has been exhibiting her work in galleries in London, Cornwall, and father afield for over thirty years. In 2008 she was asked to interpret Poet Laureate Carol Ann Duffy’s fairytale The Princess’ Blankets, which won the English Association’s Best Illustrated Book for Key Stage 2 in 2009. Her second book, Firebird written by Saviour Pirotta,  was awarded an Aesop Accolade by the American Folklore Society in 2010. Her third book, Little Evie in the Wild Wood written by Jackie Morris, is a twist on the Red Riding Hood fairy tale. She both wrote and illustrated The Star Tree, which has been nominated for the 2017 Kate Greenaway Award and shortlisted for the 2017 Cambridgeshire Children’s Picture Book Award. I recommend all four books highly.

Regarding her work process, she says: "I am constantly exploring the places between definable moments: the meeting points between land and water, earth and sky, dusk and dawn in order to capture the landscape in a state of suspension drawing the viewer to the liminal spaces that lie between dream and consciousness.”

Please visit Catherine's website, blog, and online shop to see more of her art.

The Golden Path by Catherine Hyde

The Sleeping Earth by Catherine HydeThe passage by Mary Oliver is from "Owls" (Orion Magazine, 1996). The passage by Rebecca Solnit is from "Virginia Woolf’s Darkness: Embracing the Inexplicable"  (The New Yorker, 2014). The poem in the picture captions is from New & Selected Poems by Mary Oliver (Beacon Press, 1992). All right reserved by the authors. The paintings by Catherine Hyde are: a detail from The Falling Sar, The Wild Night Ascending, The Soft Hush of Night, The Running of the Deer, The Golden Path, and The Sleeping Earth. All rights reserved by the artist.


I love Catherine Hyde's work, and her titles are a complete and integral part of the poetry of her pictures. One day I hope to own one of them...but the royalty cheques will have to get much fatter before that happens.

Owls sometimes haunt the railway embankment behind my house, but they're infrequent visitors, apart from one beautiful tawney female. She sits in the trees and calls and calls for a mate, but sadly there's yet to be a reply. I hope she finds a sleek and dashing male soon; an embankment of owlets would be lovely!

What entirely stunning work and words. I have had a lifelong--though sadly intermittent--interaction with the owls and this feels so very right.

I took a winter's walk after a snow early one morning and found the grisly evidence of the hunter's success, tracks and blood in the snow, the marks of wings as the great bird landed, and a whole rabbitskin, turned inside out like a glove. Efficient and deadly hunter!

I would be awake mostly at night if I could, and sleep the day away. So your walk up the hill enraptured me. It's a dark morning here now as I write this, but the only journey I had to take to my computer was through carpeted rooms. :-) Through all the difficulties of my life, the dark has for me always represented solace, quiet, possibility. I love too "the darkness that is the unknown, the unseeable, the obscure." To me, stepping towards this is how to make magic in your life.

As for owls - for me, their call in the forest night is like a call to enchantment. I hear the otherworld in its beautiful, eerie song. The place of wild dreaming. Then the reminder is that these borders we see around our lives are only veils, waterfalls, shifting light and shadow.

Catherine Hyde's art is achingly beautiful.

I've been "owlet" on the internet for ... wow, 18 years now. A "persona" old enough to vote!

Many years ago I volunteered at the Austin Nature & Science Center, and one of my jobs was to clean the owl cages: pick up their dinner leavings (random parts of headless chicks), retrieve any nice-looking pellets for the classrooms (NB: no pellets actually look "nice"), hose everything down, refill their water.

I didn't know it yet, but at the time I was also dangerously ill. That time is such a dreamlike welter of confusing memories: my weakness, owls' eyes, the cages of the "breeder/feeder" rats and mice. Waking up from a blackout on a concrete slab with three huge barred owls staring at me.

The first nightmare I ever remember having was of owls staring at me.

But I don't begrudge them. They can't help being liminal. They can't help being important. If I open my eyes wide enough, will I see as they do?

Here's a poem I wrote from October (found here:

Blessing of Owls

May it be

a blessing of owls:

eyes wide to opportunity

the awareness of all around you

the gift of vision.

May it be

darkness uncovering its secrets

knowledge put to good use

safety found in shadow.

May it be

reprieve from the overwhelm

quiet as an act of devotion

wisdom revealed by silence.

Enchanting, inspiring. Thank you!
One of my favorite memories is a day spent with a falconer in Scotland, working with two falcons, three hawks, and an owl he was rehabilitating. The owl astonished me, so light as he returned to my glove that if I was not looking I would not know he was there until he fluffed up his wings to let me know. Yet, in the air, he seemed huge. I am in awe of owls, always pausing to listen to the barred owls in the woods by my home, shivering a little, but also grateful to have them there. And then I check to see whether my cat's inside.

Beautiful poem, Virginia, and evocative imagery in your story. Thank you for sharing both.

Oh, I am so glad that I chose to read this tonight (Alaska time). Around noon, I went to the kitchen sink for a glass of water, and outside streaming up the hill was an owl in daylight. A large pattern amongst the bare cottonwood branches and gnarled trunks. The world is grey and white, deep green and smatters of blue, here in Alaska at this time of the year. But the owl in daylight was such a treat. I listen to them sing their mournful calls at night, one down the hill, one above near where the coyotes den. Such grace.

Inspiring post, Terri! I was particularly moved by the idea that writers must go into the dark with eyes open. Another small poem of thanks.

The Owl

Eyes wide in the dark
after the hunt,
she is full,
no longer hungry,
except for shape
for sound
for definition of the true world
in which she flies,
then wings wide,
beating back,
she lands
on the wrist of
winter tree.
Oh, fly again,

-Edith Hope Bishop

I love everything about this post - the words, the images, just perfect! Thank you :)

I entirely agree, Catherine's titles and enchanting...and practically beg for stories to be written about them.

If you ever get those owlets, Stuart, I want to come see them! I've never yet seen an owlet.

Thank you so much, Kate.

My husband is like you; he loves the night and does his best work then. I love the early, early morning. There have been times when we've met in passing, he on his way to bed and me getting up....

An extraordinary story and an extraordinary poem; thank you so much for sharing it here, Virginia. Owls are related to illness in the myths of so many cultures worldwide -- sometimes in relation to causing it, and sometimes as the means of healing. Clearly yours were healing.

What a wonderful experience. I'm envious!

Our Devon winters are so mild compared to yours, and yet I complain of the cold nonetheless. After years of wintering in the Arizona desert, it's been hard to get used to northern winter again, and to the darkness that comes with it. But instead of simply enduring these months, I'm slowly learning to love this time of year. It must be truly beautiful in Alaska.

A beautiful poem. A truly beautiful poem. Thank you for this gift.

A pleasure!

Or poems! Written by someone with a sparse, understated style.

As for the owlets, I'll let you know if there are any developments; though there's a definite lack of eligible tawny males around here. Ms owl 'teewhits' so forlornly and there's never a 'toowhoo' in reply. Sad.

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