Letters from the Catskills: The Sky Kept Sending Eagles
The first week, I saw one at the Beaverkill Covered Bridge—wings wide as prophecy, circling high above the creek just as I arrived. I stood there, stunned. Breath caught. Time slowed.
You don’t expect to be welcomed by an eagle. And yet, there it was, gliding with ease, scanning the currents, saying pay attention without a sound.
I kept looking for them after that, unsure if I’d been given a rare gift or just caught a lucky glimpse. But the eagles kept returning.
In the weeks that followed, I began to see them again and again—above the road on solo drives through winding backcountry, their shadows slipping across the windshield like spirit messengers. In the quietest moments, they would appear—when I was most alone, most reflective, most open.
And then, one morning at Alder Lake, I saw the golden one. Rare. Mythic. Almost unbelievable. It flew low over the water, so close I could see the amber shine along its wingspan. My whole body stilled. There was nothing else to do but witness.
After that, the bald eagles became nearly weekly companions. They appeared as if summoned—never predictable, always precise. I started to wonder if I was being followed by sky. Or reminded.
Because what are eagles, if not the original visionaries?
They don’t rush. They don’t cling to the ground. They rise above, wait for the right moment, and strike only when it matters.
I started to understand: they were teaching me something about leadership.
Not the kind that scrambles to be seen. Not the kind that exhausts itself in noise. But the kind that soars. That watches. That knows the difference between urgency and clarity.
They taught me to lift my perspective when I got too tangled in the details. To trust in timing. To recognize that strength doesn’t always roar—sometimes it rides the wind.
By the final days, their presence steadied me. Their flight was a kind of prayer, and their return was a quiet promise: You are on the right path. Keep going. Keep watching. Keep rising.
Practice: Listening Like the Sky
This is a practice for when you need to listen deeper—for guidance, for confirmation, for the subtle wisdom that rarely shouts. You can do this outdoors under open sky, or indoors with a window nearby.
You’ll need just 5–10 minutes, a quiet place to sit and something to write with.
Settle & Soften: Sit comfortably. Close your eyes or keep them soft. Take a slow breath in and out. Again. And once more. Feel the space around you expand, like wings stretching wide. Say quietly to yourself: “I am open. I am listening.”
Ask the Sky: You don’t have to name a question. But if you have one, bring it forward gently. No urgency. Just curiosity. Then let it go—release it like a feather, and let the listening begin.
Receive Without Forcing: Notice what arises. A memory. A phrase. An image. A feeling in your body. Let it be enough. Don’t analyze it yet. Just receive.
Reflect + Anchor: Open your eyes slowly. If anything came up—write it down. If nothing did, trust that clarity may come later. That’s part of the listening too.
Ask yourself: What am I being shown that I keep trying to overlook? Where am I being asked to rise above distraction? What would it look like to lead with clarity, not urgency?
Remember: The sky doesn’t compete for attention. It simply waits until you’re ready to look up. Lead like that—open, spacious, sure. Watch. Wait. Rise.
