Barn Owl Blessing

In which I go for a solo paddle and encounter a huge bird

I slip my board onto the water, climb on and pushed out. The river is powerful, pushing me away from the lock and the fishermen, past the house boats. I take a stroke to get myself in the middle of the stream, stand up and let the wind and current carry me. It feels as if relaxation happens instantly – a deep breath and I’m here, surrounded and supported by water. Stand-up paddle boarding feels like one of the ways I was built to travel; walk, run, climb, float.

I’m soon past the boats, and all I can see bordering the river are fields and trees. Traffic noise has all but vanished – any remaining engine notes muffled by the wind in the reeds. A group of swans is feeding, keeping a wary eye on me. They part to let me by, one swimming forward aggressively to see me out of his (I presume) territory. I soak up the scene: green and blue, gentle, quiet. On a warmer day I would slip into the water at this point, but there’s a chilly breeze. I stand still, letting myself drift – just a stroke here and there to stay away from the banks.

The journey downriver is fast. I keep an eye on the time and distance, estimating the time it will take to get back. I stop at a side channel, tucked into the reeds to sip tea and eat. It’s ben such a brief trip, but my emotional energy tank is nearly back to full already. I can face the week. I think of a friend who’s far more contemplative than me and am inspired – for the first time – to make the most of the journey back. I’ll be pushing into the wind, taking fast strokes to beat the current, but I can keep my eyes and my mind open.

I ask, ‘What do you want to say to me?’ I try to say no to the thoughts about future meals, chores to do at home, and pressing issues at work. ‘What have you got for me?’ ‘What do I need to hear?’ Nothing comes, but I deliberately enjoy each section of the river: the part with high banks and a few mostly abandoned docks, the corner with the trees and cabin on wheels, the part where the swans like to feed.

As I near the bend where the houseboat settlement starts, on the left bank just above the tops of the reeds and the grasses, I see thick, white-feathered wings. It’s the briefest glimpse of a huge bird gliding above the field – gone in a heartbeat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a barn owl in the wild, but this must be it. Nothing else I could think of could be so massive and white, chunky and silent.

I feel like I’ve just been blessed. It’s like when a swan takes off over my head, its wings beating a muscular, musical sound. Thank you. Gratitude doesn’t just make me stop, it leaves me wondering for days. What does it mean? I’m still not sure. I was there to see this creature, one of only about 8,000 living in the UK. I got to see and appreciate something relatively rare, unpredictable, free. I couldn’t orchestrate this appearance, and maybe neither did God – but as overseer and sustainer of the whole set of processes which produced that bird, he gave it to me to witness.

The Psalms say that all creation praises God, and this animal is a significant member of the choir. I believe this way of describing the natural world isn’t just a metaphor, but that by simply being itself, doing what it was made to do, it is worshipping its creator in some way.

Some theologians think we are here to mediate the praise of creation in priestly fashion – when we do our job well.  I’m not so sure. I think it’s fairly clear from Psalms 8 and 19 that the created order is worshipping God whether humans are there to see it and join in or not. My experience of a barn owl was as an observer of an animal I understand very little - creamy white wings, huge head and powerful feet. I, on the other hand, need the natural world to help me praise. I am drawn to worship by my fellow creature’s flight along the water’s edge.

My barn owl blessing is extremely brief. I must keep pulling hard, sitting low and using my whole body to make strong strokes as I come in sight of the last stretch before the lock. The return to everyday life is softened by the line of boats with their docks, sheds and gardens – a joyful outpouring of human creativity.

There are willows at the landing place, and a steep bank between me and the car. I try to carry my blessing into the evening, remembering that soft white glide as the day darkens and busyness starts to take over my mind again. What did he say again? Maybe, ‘Pay attention, I’ve got more to give.’