spring beauty, risen again
And just like that, the message came. It was 11pm, an ungodly late hour for me. But laundry had been forgotten and down to the basement I went. Turn on the light, open the door and whoosh, there he was.
The little brown bat.
Flying in circles, flying in circles, deftly missing me in his passing.
If you know me at all, you know there is no panic in the presence of a bat. My only immediate concern was to open the doors and point the way out. He kept flying in circles. Flying in circles.
Until he flew into the little cubby-room to the south and stayed. I retrieved the laundry, wished him well and closed the door. He found his way in, he'd have to find his way out.
But the bat, the unmistakable bat, is the Native American symbol for rebirth. Preceded by the Shaman's death~ the extensive letting go of the outmoded life, where the initiate would dig themselves a grave and spend the night in the ground, surviving their deepest fears. I could not deny that it had been just me and him at night below ground. So, what else is there to do but open to the ways of rebirth?
I admit, there have been moments of cathartic release since the bat flew into my life. And there was the red squirrel, also little, freshly run over as I drove down the road. I saw it in death-throe convulsions and plucked it off the tar to die in my hands. The little red angers within me bleeding out through the squirrel and laid to rest on the side of the road. Get back in the car. Keep going.
Do not resist the rebirth. Keep going.
There are shudders in the premature grave. New breath brings new life and the rising will come.
The rising will come.
The little brown bat has said so.