The Sacred Encounter: Loss and Transformation in Nature

A few days after I returned from Wales, the house finches began building a nest above my back door. I noticed it slowly, first with a few stray grasses, then a messy little home tucked neatly above the door I walk under every day to my backyard.

Most of the softness came from my dog’s undercoat. It had been drifting in white tufts across the yard for weeks. I remember thinking how cute it was. The nest was stitched together from the body of my malamute girl, Muninn. It felt both sacred and ordinary.

The Joy of Nature's Music

The finches sang constantly. Even before the eggs hatched, their voices filled the air with flitting, silvery melodies. It seemed to ripple across the threshold, a reminder that life continues. The birds were the sing-songiest of all the birds around me, bright and insistent. I had just returned from Wales, carrying a reclaimed voice in my bones—something ancient, wild, and deeply mine. It felt like a harmony being offered to what had just been returned.

I didn’t hover over the nest or take daily photos. Instead, I happily greeted the finches whenever I moved outside. "Morning, mama" and "morning, babies" became my daily mantras. Each time I crossed from my home to the yard, I felt the transition from the human world to the wild. I had experienced similar feelings in Wales during visits to sacred sites.

Watching Life Unfold

When the chicks hatched, their peeping filled the air. At first, I thought there were three, but then I noticed only two tiny fluffy heads peek up. I began to tread more carefully as I stepped outside, increasingly aware of the life unfolding above me. An anxious feeling washed over me as well. We have three dogs: two malamutes and a small Lundehund. All three would pass under this same threshold to play, wrestle, and spend time in the yard. What would happen now? I began to dread the outcome of this mix.

Muninn

The Unraveling of a Moment

And then, this morning, my fears came true; everything changed.

I was outside on the patio with a friend and two of my dogs, Muninn and Mae (my little Lundehund). I noticed one of the chicks at the edge of the nest, its little fluff on its head. It was braver than its sibling, who was more timid and cozy. I took out my camera for a photo when that brave little bird took a leap from the rim. It fluttered awkwardly and then landed, shockingly, on my shoulder.

I froze, instinctively wanting to reach for it. But within seconds, it launched again, making it over my patio fence. It landed in front of me on the grass.

What happened next was a blur. Muninn moved before I could react. I ran after her, screaming in panic, but I realized it was too late. I looked at Muninn, proud and happy, running away with the bird, and just like that, the chick was gone. I stood frozen.

The Depth of Grief

In that moment, I felt the shock and disbelief of what had just occurred. Beneath that, something deeper stirred. Initially, it felt cruel, and I screamed in a feral way to protect that little life. Then it transformed into something mythic. The fledgling had touched me first; it landed on my shoulder. That mattered. It had chosen me.

Muninn, my sweet dog, isn’t a cruel creature. She had been a nervous pup for years, often unsure of her instincts and looking to me for direction. But in that moment, she moved with certainty. There was no hesitation or fear in her; just pure knowing.

It no longer felt like a tragedy. It felt like a rite of passage for both of us. This moment was a threshold. Muninn had claimed not just the fledgling but a part of herself. The wolf within her emerged, clear-eyed, wild, and whole.

The sibling left in the nest didn’t move for a long time. It sat peering over the edge, eventually tucking back in. I understood its response, too. It was silent for the next hours while the parents flitted about the yard for their missing baby. My heart ached knowing where it was, and I whispered softly, “I’m sorry, Mama, and Pops.”

A New Awareness

Now there is only one chick left. I walked back beneath the nest with a transformed awareness—one tinged with the feeling of loss. I felt grief for the little survivor and also awe. The one that had died was merely weeks old, yet it touched me and then passed through the death portal. I grabbed some soft rugs and laid them beneath the doorway, a small offering of comfort in case the next leap comes soon.

To give the survivor a chance, I won’t let the dogs out for the next week. But I know this is beyond my control. It’s mine only to witness.

This moment with the lone survivor finch felt like a mirror. It reflected Muninn coming into her courage and authentic self, perhaps even sacrificing a life that could represent old ways. I’m not sure what it all signifies, but something felt sacredly lost. In a way, I, too, have stepped into my authentic self. I carry new wisdom and see the world through fresh eyes, much like a baby bird freshly hatched.

I left so much of myself behind in Wales, but I also brought it all back. I connected to every part of me in a moment beneath a 5,000-year-old tree and within the sacred shrine to St. Melengell. I remembered a voice that had been buried deep. The part of me that communicates in the language of giants. And maybe, just maybe, that little bird, in its final leap, was the first to hear it.

St. Melengells