The Conference of the Birds

The dreaded day is upon us. To watch or not to watch, to boycott, to respond the next day with the strength of millions, everyone is plotting their strategy to survive, to stay afloat, to keep hope alive. Some move toward political action, some toward soul-work, some to education, some to “all of the above.” All of it is needed.

The word "Inauguration" comes from "augury," the practice of interpreting omens by observing the flight patterns of birds. In Roman times, if things did not look good, the ceremony was postponed. But we moderns are tied to pre-set dates regardless of the signs of the times and the catastrophe will go on as scheduled.

The omens could not be more ominous. The crows and vultures are circling, the canaries in the mine have stopped singing, the white doves are now dirty pigeons swarming through the city’s parks. The attack on the children in the schoolhouse that Hitchcock predicted is poised to begin, with Betsy DeVoss in the lead. For me, for many, tomorrow will be a day of mourning, a day of international shame, a day to renew all vows to stand up, speak out and not give up.

But some corner of me still believes that majestic eagles will rise and disperse the scavengers, that the songbirds will sing their sweet songs no matter how tiny their voices are alone, that the ostriches with their heads in the sand will finally look up and see what’s coming down, that the parrots mindless repeating everything they heard on Fox News will shut up and listen. Out of this swamp will rise some graceful egrets and herons and the full measure of winged creatures will meet, confer and help restore the balance of nature.

They will not clip our wings and stifle our song. We were made to sing. We were made to fly, Another inauguration is in the works that the TV cameras will miss, as we swear each other into the office of protecting, sustaining and moving further the progress we fought so hard for.

May it be so!