Wild Goose Meandering

The wild geese greet me each morning on our arrival at the lake, the pup and I for our daily walk. There seems a change in the way I interact with the hordes of wild geese that populate our lake. Perhaps it is my own new awareness rather than a spiritual meaning like I want it to be since my experience last week finding a dead wild goose floating and my burial of her in a rock cairn.

I first felt a difference the other day when I climbed out of my truck and heard wings beating against the water in an unusual way. There is a certain sound that signals their flight from water to air – this was not that. The wild geese were settled at the far corner of the lake, near where I buried their sister. They fluttered and ducked, their glorious wings pattering on the water, making a sound so different from the sound of flight. I stood, watching them frolic and splash before I continued my walk, making my circuitous way back to the cairn, thinking to add a few more rocks. As I approached, I saw the wild goose, her neck stretched out from her burial cairn, as if she was reaching for the skies and her freedom. There was no sign that she had been ravaged by a wild animal. I tucked her back into the cairn and placed more rocks over the entry, deciding to come back in a couple days to ensure that she remained at peace in her rest.

On my next visit the wild geese flew overhead, in a perfect V formation with one goose clearly in the lead position. Often their formation is a little messy with several geese flying helter-skelter, honking and carrying on. This group was silent and organized – it felt like a salute, almost, to a mind that is always searching for meaning and symbolism, a gesture of respect that I had treated their sister with the same.

When I arrived a day later, I climbed out of my truck, stepping onto the seemingly wet pavement that was truly pure ice. I caught my footing and chose to walk on the grassy part, avoiding the pavement. As I made my way down the hill to the water, I noticed dozens of wild geese this time. Many of them were sitting at the water’s edge – on sighting me they slowly eased themselves into the water, not with fear, rather with resignation of their peace being disturbed. Walking along the sandy part of the beach, between the grassy area and the rocky beach, I watched them. There were a variety of groups, honking and swimming. One group would suddenly erupt into flight, their wings beating a staccato rhythm. Another group would burst into sound, their honks frantic, as if a passionate discussion was launched on their next move – should they follow the wild geese in flight or join with another group on the water? I watched those in flight, flapping wildly in a southern direction away from me then banking suddenly and coming over me, noisily heading north. I stood in awe, watching this symphony, feeling connected in some way to these glorious beasts, to their freedom and play, to their community and organization. I noticed a bald eagle, singular and majestic, higher than the wild geese soaring over the lake. As he honed in on a towering ponderosa pine and settled, he chirped his eagle song, one I have come to know intimately from watching the mated pair at the head of the lake for several years. Often I hear their chirps and look for them, my eyes wandering over the evergreen trees, trying to pinpoint which direction their cheeping call is coming from. I breathed in deeply, thanking the birds for the peace I find in watching them. I wanted to check on the cairn again and began to walk along the rocks, though they were covered in a thin sheet of ice, making the walk treacherous. I picked my way carefully until I could see the cairn. It was undisturbed this time and I chose to not go closer this time in light of the slippery danger.

I continue the mental meandering, thinking of the symbolic message of the wild geese to me. A quick internet search leads me to some articles on the symbolism – from the passing of seasons, to messengers between heaven and earth to loyalty, matrimony and fertility. I have been considering this these last few days, wondering which meaning I will welcome into my life. I feel a connection to Goldilocks, searching for the one that fits just right.

I think about how they live their life. How they migrate from place to place, settling down here and there. That the migration is what truly defines them, that they travel with their offspring, showing them the way. That the group is protection and greater than one individual. In some areas, the geese have stopped migrating, preferring to stay in one place year-round. During their migration they take the same route, stopping in open fields or bodies of waters to rest and feed before once again taking to the skies on their journey.

I am like a wild goose, I suppose. I have been migrating regularly since my birth, first as a child to an Army father, conceived in Colorado, born in Virginia, moved to Germany then Texas before alighting in Ohio after my parents’ divorce. My mother raised me in her small, rural hometown, saying “Go, go, explore the world.”

When I turned 18, I left, joining the Navy myself, traveling first to Florida then California. That was only two years of my life – once I left the military I moved to Colorado, hoping to build a relationship with my father and his wife, where I failed. I made my way to Oregon, encouraged by old Army day family friends to join them. After a few years, Ohio beckoned to me, the sentimental feeling of being close to family, of living in a small town where everyone knows your name, of familiarity. Seven years passed before my migration itch became unbearable and back to Oregon I fled with my young daughter, reigniting an old flame. It was at this point that I became the wild goose who decided to settle down and cease migrating. I found the peace and stability I did not know I craved, a perfect place to raise my daughter with my one true love. And we did that, until a myriad of terrible things led to the end of that beautiful life. My daughter and I fled once again, to a city a few hours south, built a new nest with my mother and hunkered down through the pandemic.

Here we roosted until the untimely death of my husband led me to choose a new path, to once again flee. We traveled to the farthest reaches of northeast Oregon, settling in an isolated and remote area, surrounded by brutally beautiful mountains and within a very short distance to a glacially formed lake where I go every morning to walk the dog, to ease my heart, to watch nature in all her glory and become one with, apparently, a wild goose.