A Raven Funeral

Driving down a well-traveled road near my home, I saw two majestic birds.

They were ravens, much larger than I ever recall, though, honestly I don't really see a ton of ravens 'round these parts. 

Crows, yes. Crows hang out when I toss day old bread toward my favorite pine trees in the yard. They hop around suggestively crooning, clicking and calling, but these ravens were different, almost other-worldly. 

I haven't been sleeping well and the invisible line which cleaves reality from fantasy blurs at the edge when I am over tired, but I'm pretty certain these black birds stood a couple of feet tall. Saturnine with the slightest hint of royal midnight moonlight, their clever eyes met mine as I drove by their perch, the side of a trash-filled drainage ditch. 

Impressed by their herculean inkiness, I wanted to snap a photo but this stretch of road is notorious for impossibly fast drivers; the sort that thrust their hands out their sunroofs, cawing obscenities as I dare to take a safety-first ten mile per hour turn off the road, minding my own business, trying not to hit squirrels as they scamper recklessly in front of me. 

Although I usually abdicate and wave, underneath my benevolence I picture myself tying these Richard Petty wannabees to the bed Misery-style and, biting my lip in concentration, sledging their ankles together. Only once did I drive in an unsafe manner to catch the backwards-hat and cherry red vape moron who flipped me off and passed me on this road when I was singing along to the 70s station one warm summer evening; but when I pulled up and my words flew, spittle-tinged and nasty, my vehicular ballyhoo drew no reply. She just side-eyed me and my mint green plastic rosary swinging from the rearview and noiselessly pulled away.  

But...the ravens. When I arrived home, I lost the better part of an hour Googling raven symbolism, totems, spirit animals, and tattoos along with a totally fascinating yet mildly depressing article on crow funerals (also, it seems, dutifully arranged and attended by ravens).

Hoping these two were just siphoning a drink off the nearby water source, I drove by the 'raven ravine' the next day, slowed down, and peered in. To my profound dismay, I saw a dead bird. An askew assemblage of hematite feathers and talons, its face was plumb against the ground like one of those awful Halloween witches people hang on trees signifying a satisfying splat. 

Were the two ravens I saw the day before ministering to their dead comrade? Were they attempting to help? I wish I hadn't waited a day to return as I might have been able to intervene. How, I'm not sure, but when I jump in, as I routinely do, I usually don't have a plan other than to do something, anything, to relieve pain.

Yes, I know. Pain is unavoidable but I exhaust myself thwarting and reliving it. And then, when I have decanted and sucked and bled from those who needed amelioration, I, pregnant with heartache, deliver it onto the page. My most beloved writing hovers about the joyless and those carrying the biggest crosses, a bloated bird soaring endlessly over a dusty landscape of persistent woe. 

I have driven by twice more on my way to errands and matters most pressing. I now have a vision of myself with a shovel and thick, black, industrial sized garbage bag hoisting the carcass and placing it in my garden, both as a religious rite and for the fertilization of my most precious moonflowers. My husband, the practical to my mystical, will surely not comply and I really need a strong plus one for a raven burial. 

Invited to a friend's home last night, she served tea and we talked about our forty years of acquaintance. Our discussion, not unexpectedly, made its way to the recent and very sudden loss of her son, victim of both an overdose and suspected foul play. One of the themes which we recanted over and over was that he didn't need to die alone, face down on a cold floor. She was not permitted to see his body until the funeral home delivered him the day of his services and he was nearly unrecognizable, bruised from what was deemed a forward facing fall. The mortician didn't use the customary amount of putty and paint to pretty him up because it was going to be a closed casket so my friend, already so fragile, got the unvarnished view of his casualty, the polar opposite of her creation. This will haunt her for the remainder of her days. 

The raven from the ravine fluttered around and landed shadow-like on my shoulder during our chat and I let him perch, unbothered, though I had to continually adjust under his substantialness, changing chairs and gently cracking my neck, as to not disturb him. He reminded me that sunrise and sunset, birth and death, alpha and omega have to coexist. It just is. The more we accept that pain is part of us, the more we ourselves connect, mortal to divine.

I don't remember driving home. Depleted from a day of medical appointments and the sincere and solemn chat, I traversed the inky darkness alone, lost in my thoughts. Then, this morning, I received a heartfelt text from my friend with beautiful words about friendship and thanksgiving; God and a light in the darkness. 

Beauty out of sadness. 

Spring from winter. 

I might still go scoop that raven up. It's been cold enough where three days in the ditch probably hasn't led to decomposition. I would like to offer him a place in my flowerbed, among friends, so that he is not alone. 

#mushroomtumbler #ravenfuneral