The Call of the Loon

Notes from Midwinter

When we arrived at this campground on a lake in East Tennessee in October, I had never seen a Loon— the elusive bird known for its haunting, otherworldly midnight calls. When we started traveling, I dreamed of hearing one in Maine or Vermont or New Hampshire. I never did.

Our winding path led us back to East Tennessee, my childhood home. In early November, a flock of birds landed, hundreds of them. It took observation and sending photos to a naturalist friend to learn that those migrating birds were Common Loons wearing their winter plumage. As suddenly as they came, they flew away. But, then a few weeks later, I was sitting out watching the stars at midnight when I heard the haunting call of the solitary Loon. I held my breath, willing it to call again. It did! It seemed a few had chosen to stay on here for the winter. I caught an occasional glimpse in the weeks that followed. Then, with winter’s chill fully sunk in here, I hadn’t seen the Loon in some time. I wondered if perhaps the frozen lake and uncharacteristic for here single-digit temps had him and his friends flying further south.

Sound up to hear the Loon call in the video

Last week brought some extended family news that no one ever wishes to hear, of a young life on the brink. In the wake of that unfathomable news, I came across a Mary Oliver poem I hadn’t yet read.

“Lead” by Mary Oliver

Here is a story
to break your heart.
Are you willing?
This winter
the loons came to our harbor
and died, one by one,
of nothing we could see.
A friend told me
of one on the shore
that lifted its head and opened
the elegant beak and cried out
in the long, sweet savoring of its life
which, if you have heard it,
you know is a sacred thing,
and for which, if you have not heard it,
you had better hurry to where
they still sing.
And, believe me, tell no one
just where that is.
The next morning
this loon, speckled
and iridescent and with a plan
to fly home
to some hidden lake,
was dead on the shore.
I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

The day after I read this, the Loon drifted back into view. For three days I watched him from an outdoor perch as he bobbed and dove in the frigid cold. To catch a glimpse is rare because he spends so much time under water, popping up hundreds of feet away from where he went under. In time, three Loons appeared…bobbing in front of me for several days.

I shared the Loon visits with my dear friend, and we both turned to Ted Andrews’ book Animal Speak to see what might be understood. He writes of the Loon:

The Loon is always around water. Water, of course, is the ancient symbol for the astral plane, dreams, and other levels of consciousness…Anytime the Loon shows up as a totem, it is calling you to pay attention to your dreams. It indicates that they will be of greater importance, along with becoming more vibrant and colorful. The haunting call of the Loon may also be telling you that all of those hopes, wishes, and dreams that you have tucked to the back of the heart are about to come to the surface. The Loon may be signaling you not to compromise them again, or you may find yourself truly haunted.

He continues,

The Loon awakens the imagination, and it reminds us that we are never given a hope, wish , or dream without also being given opportunities to make them a reality. And the only thing that can shatter that possibility is compromise. The Loon can lead you back to your greatest dreams and imaginings.

In a seeming aberration of natural order, the Loon has solid bones so he can plumb the depths of the river bed. Yet, he is clumsy on land and can only take flight from the water. This unexpectedly marvelous bird is more at home in the river bed mud than in the air.

Perhaps to hear the call of the Loon is to be called to share what you’ve found in the depths of your own experience and to offer it up no matter how awkward it feels.

In a week’s time, the whispered prayers for my little cousin turned to deeper grief with his passing. In times of grief and loss, I have never found words to say. I still have none. I could only sit outside catching glimpses of snowflakes and diving Loons. I’m trying to turn to what is beautiful in these times. The moments remind that life is so fragile, often in such unexpected ways. If we don’t share the ways we find meaning and beauty now, perhaps we never will. The Loon has reminded me to dive in, no matter the conditions. Winter just might be the time to sow the words of hope into the frozen landscape where the snowflakes can blanket them with visions of fractaled light.

The beauty of life, so fleeting, is like a snowflake glimmering in the sunshine as it melts back to a droplet. I wonder how to glimmer in the explosion of this moment. The elusive Loon and the snowflakes have reminded me over and over to seek for and create beauty now. The hypothetical someday might be too late. Sometimes the most aching beauty lasts only a moment.

I’ll be trying to show up here, sharing my little corner of the world and the ways the natural world brings me into deeper devotion to this wild world. I hope if you desire, you, too, will find yourself on the banks of some river or lake under a full moon mesmerized by the call of the Loon.

Loon call:

https://www.audubon.org/news/hear-hauntingly-beautiful-call-common-loon

Down Deeper by Woven Kin, feat. Leah Song:

With love,

Amanda

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This first post is dedicated to the Magical Barbara Sinclair, who for many months received so many of my wobbling words and gently nudged me to jump onto this platform. She is a true Anam Cara, a soul friend. And, to my mom and best friend for reading my words for years now and encouraging me to share. Thank you, Barbara, Patty, and Tanya!

All images and videos are my own.

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