From the quiet solitude of childhood, my most profound moments of peace were found outdoors, immersed in nature. It was in these moments of communion with trees, earth, and timelessness that I felt spiritual guidance and profound knowledge emerge, revealing themselves in beautiful and insightful ways. Robins were constant companions during these formative experiences. Years later, this connection deepened when my sister Margaret and her husband Gene settled into their new home in Glenpool, Oklahoma. Robins were there too. I vividly recall a young sycamore in their front yard, visible in early family photos. Like my niece Missy, the sapling and the child grew together. A family of robins made that sycamore their home. On every visit, whether yearly or every few years, the robins were always present. Over time, I came to recognize generations of robins who shared their lives with Margaret and her family in that Glenpool haven.
Initially, my plan was to find a secluded piece of family land and build a small cabin for summer stays, especially during stomp dance season. Moving back to Oklahoma permanently was never in my thoughts. I cherished my life in New Mexico, captivated by its light, mountains, and the honored place of native cultures. Yet, Oklahoma remained my birthplace and the heartland of my tribal nation. Shortly after my mother’s passing in October 2011, a strong spiritual prompting guided me back. By November, I found myself buying and residing in that very Glenpool house, while my sister took over our mother’s Tulsa home. My spirit guardian conveyed that returning was essential, positioning me exactly where I needed to be for my life’s best course to unfold. This guiding presence has been with me throughout my earthly journey, and I’ve learned the wisdom of heeding its direction, despite my occasional resistance. Ignoring this inner voice invariably leads to consequences. This time, I listened intently.
Upon my return, each morning became a ritual of greeting the sun with my flute, sending prayers on the wind through its melodies. The elder robin, a watchful guardian of the yard, observed my morning practice with keen interest from his perch. One morning, he initiated a dialogue. “Who are you?” he inquired. Out of respect, I shifted my perception to match his scale. “I am her sister,” I responded, “the one who lived here before, with her mate.” This acknowledgment seemed to satisfy him. Then, I played my flute. The music was unlike anything he had ever encountered; he had never witnessed a human transforming into a bird through music.
From that day forward, he became my constant observer, regardless of my activities. I, in turn, watched him. I came to understand his role as a speaker, responsible for communicating the state of the robin world within our area – a kind of avian oratory, akin to our punvkv cvpkeckv.
Now, it seems robins recognize me wherever I go. They appear to seek me out. When I relocated from the Glenpool house to my husband’s Tulsa home, it was that particular robin I missed most profoundly. One morning, overwhelmed by this sense of absence, I opened my front door to an astonishing sight: over fifty robins gathered there. They remained silent, eventually dispersing. After all, they are birds, and we are humans, inhabiting a world where human actions often threaten the very earth that sustains us all. We once possessed a more fluid communication with nature. Perhaps, we can learn to reconnect again.
