This is what the things can teach us:
To fall patiently, to trust our heaviness
Even a bird has to do that before he can fly.
—Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
With the coming of autumn Canada geese begin to once again announce themselves, flying over in scattered family groups, in training for the great migration south. They’ve been mostly quiet over the summer as they tend to domestic matters — mating, incubating, raising young, chasing predators, and fattening up on grass. Since the city birds are our neighbours, we’ve watched their offspring grow from downy goslings to gawky adolescents. Now they are young adults enjoying the thrill of flight. Soon it will be time to bid them farewell.
It seems such a short time ago in the spring when I heard the first Branta canadensis fly over my neighbourhood, to be followed by thousands more. Then, in early June, I witnessed something rather special.
I was on a nine-day retreat at Star of the North Retreat House in St. Albert. Alberta.
While Insight Meditation teachers Jeanne Corrigal and Kristina Baré officially led the retreat, there was a third unexpected guru present. I noticed her sitting out a storm on a small overhang near the window of my room on the evening I arrived. Though lashed by rain and wind and thunder, she sat like a perfect little Buddha, unbothered, unmoving, so still that I took her to be a garden ornament at first.
Then she blinked. Her head moved slightly. Her body shifted a little, momentarily revealing a clutch of eggs. It was clear that mother goose would be sitting the retreat with us.
Mother goose on her makeshift nest at Star of the North Retreat House.
Jeanne opened her first dharma talk by saying that the Buddha learned everything he knew from nature. Buddhist scriptures often mention animals — wise elephants, scatterbrained monkeys, and yes, geese. Did you know that in one of his previous lives the Buddha was a golden goose? In the Dhammapada geese are praised for their detachment: “Mindful people exert themselves. They are not attached to any home. Like geese that quit their lakes, they leave one abode after another behind.”
Sitting on her nest for days with nary a break, mother goose taught us many things, not least the need for patience and perseverance. This was her second try at nesting. The first attempt, on another part of the property, failed due to apparent predation by crows. (Interestingly, the crow has its own place in Buddhist teachings. Tibetan Buddhists see crows as auspicious dharma protectors.)
We came to see her, and her mate, who stood guard from the rooftop, as teachers: Keep trying, stay alert, follow the laws of nature.
We were learning about samadhi — a state of mind characterized by bliss and focused attention. Samadhi isn’t something you do, necessarily. Rather, you work to establish the conditions that invite samadhi to come and find you. It’s like birding in a way — you go to a place where you know birds go, at a season they are likely to be present, sometimes with a knowledgable guide, and wait to see who arrives. Or you could put up a feeder in your back yard.
A meditation retreat is like a birding expedition. A home practice is like a backyard feeder. Both are rewarding but the longer expedition is likely to lead to a bigger experience, for all kinds of reasons. One is the element of the unexpected. Geese don’t nest in my backyard, for starters.
Momma goose seemed to me to embody samadhi. From all appearances she seemed blissful, sitting rapt as unseen magic took place under the warmth of her breast. Though fasting, she bore whatever hunger and thirst were present with quiet stoicism and seemed content enough.
Each day I looked for signs the eggs were hatching. But a watched pot doesn’t boil. Goose eggs take 28 days to incubate. It seemed like a lot to expect them to break free at the same time as us.
And yet, that’s what happened.
There can a sweet spot during a retreat when liberation becomes tangible. You adapt to the rhythms, calm settles over body and mind, fewer hindrances arise, a sense of spacious presence arises from within, you love everybody. There’s less getting caught in tangles of problem solving and worry, there’s more ease. There is some insight, some temporary release. Breaking free.
Stock image by bunty wild photography provided by Unsplash.
I was feeling this sense of temporary release on the morning of the seventh day. And when I looked outside of my window that morning, I was astonished to see that one of the goose eggs had in fact broken open. The shell, cleanly cracked in two, was sitting empty outside the nest, its former occupant moving about under its mom. A few more eggs hatched later that day, and a few more the next day, until all six emerged.
What were the odds of these goslings breaking out just as we were wrapping up our week of sitting meditation?
We were supposed sit in silence, but this proved impossible on the second last day of retreat. We were in the hall, quietly engaged in our morning meditation, when a sudden piercing scream shattered the silence. As we learned later, a kitchen worker had gone into the courtyard just as the hatchlings had begun to jump onto the grass below. Father goose, who was securing the perimeter, immediately launched himself at the startled worker, causing no injuries but a great deal of commotion. The courtyard was thereafter off-limits to humans.
No one could really sit in samadhi after that, so we spent a good part of the morning watching from windows as the drama unfolded. Four goslings made it to the ground and immediately took cover under the shelter of their dad’s wings. The fifth was still thinking over the three-metre jump and the sixth had yet to hatch.
This is what the things can teach us:
To fall patiently, to trust our heaviness
Even a bird has to do that before he can fly.
Nature being what it is, a desirable ending is never certain. The sixth bird broke out of its shell by noon but it had no time to dry off, much less develop the necessary strength and confidence to fall patiently and trust its heaviness. By clinging to their rooftop nest, numbers five and six were holding things up for the rest of the family. The other four would need food and water soon or they would die. They had a big waddle ahead of them, for the river was a long way off. We watched in horror as the family decamped, leaving the rooftop pair to their fate.
In my imagination, I entertained the idea that number five, who I named Sati, had chosen to stay behind for the sake of number six, who I named Sami. I observed Sati peer over the ledge, then look back to its weaker sibling, as if to encourage. It reminded me of adult geese that remain on the ground with injured mates until they recover or die. Whatever the case, we understood that the crows would find them soon enough.
In response, a small team of yogis with ladders and a cardboard box staged a rescue and brought the two orphans to a nearby veterinary office that handles wildlife. People meditating with open hearts are not going to leave two newborns to die. Nature would not to take its course on our watch.
I don’t know what happened to Sati and Sami after we left, but I’d wager their odds of survival were good. I’d like to think the trauma of their being plucked from their nest and placed temporarily in the scary world of humanity was made more bearable for having each other.
Maybe they were released and adopted by another family — a common practice among geese. Even now, as I write this on a mid-September morning, I imagine Sati and Sami soaring over the prairie together, happily gaggling as they flex their wings, sensing the excitement of the grand journey ahead.
Yes, their lives are fraught with danger and uncertainty and they will die one day, as will we.
But what an adventure!
—Nelle Oosterom
Stock image by Chris Robert provided by Unplash.
