Three Symbols of Something to Come

For five years I lived in NYC and there were many noises. Trains, ambulances, trash trucks, trucks backing up, cars behind that truck honking encouraging (that’s a nice way of saying it) them to shift gears and move forward. You hear people singing, or yelling, in the apartments next door, you hear someone dragging their bags across the concrete, and you feel and hear a subway arriving at a station below you. Little do you hear the sounds of nature though. Until you walk early in the morning in Brooklyn near Forte Greene Park. That’s where I always got to hear my nature.

I worked at a restaurant near that area that served brunch on weekends and dinner every day but Monday. On this particular day, I was opening brunch. They served authentic, organic, properly sourced Brazilian, Venezuelan, and Mexican food. They carried richly fragrant destilados that evaporated off your tongue, and delicious rotating organic wines with a pallet of various florals, sea mists, tannins, and more that you could choose from. When I used to drink, after closing the restaurant, we’d hang out at the bar counting tips and drinking mezcal or working together to finish a wine bottle that would otherwise be thrown away having been opened to serve a single glass. What a waste, it was our duty along with closing up to make sure nothing went to waste. We’d talk about all the tables we loved, and more than not, the tables we despised, sometimes the tip line let us know who was who.

When I had the opening shift I liked to take my time. I got up early and got ready quickly so I could enjoy the time it took to get there. It was a bit of a walk that I had to take, but it was my favorite walk. The only problem I ever had with it was if it was raining in the winter, and the sidewalks became precarious, both in safety and sanitation. Today was a touch warmer though, it was lightly overcast about 46 degrees in April. I was wearing a bulky sweater with my blue backpack I still have to this day. Like every Sunday I walked slowly, taking my time. I watched all the squirrels coming out from the winter excited to explore with the weather being somewhat decent now. I watched as two sets of parents sat on their stoops watching their kids battling each other with sticks. I couldn’t help but smile as I continued on. Only a few cars passed my way that morning. It would get a little bit louder as I got closer to my restaurant but at the moment it was quiet. Just how I liked it.

As I was just about to round a corner getting closer to my destination I heard a sound above me “Click, click, click, click.” I stopped dead in my tracks and looked up into the tree but could see nothing. Either it flew away, or my view of it was obstructed. I had never heard a bird like this, at least not that I could remember, but I was certain that I never heard this call while on my walks. It sounded like a bird imitating a spring winding up. I never heard the same sound again.

On any other day, this sound wouldn’t give me pause, I would barely think about it. I would just note it in pleasantry while doing the same to fifteen other songs before I stepped up to my building to lift up the gate and open the restaurant. This bird’s “winding-up” call was special to me. A few days ago I completed a book by Haruki Murakami. A character whose wife disappears, seemingly for someone else, along with his cat, and sets out to understand why, discovering little answers and something much more malicious.

Just a few months ago from that particular day, I had recently broken up with someone I loved deeply and was very slowly healing. It was a kind and considerate break-up, she was growing more and more worried that she couldn’t commit to me like I was to her, her discomfort growing alongside. She had far more strength than I to try to live without each other. This break-up brought out a lot of understanding of my habits of codependency, and further acceptance of my being alone. This was the last relationship I’ve had. The remaining years have been a rediscovery and a healing of the soul. This was probably why I woke up early and walked slowly, knowing I would need to take my time, for some time. I empathized with the character in the story. I also felt like I was in a dark repeating labyrinth with unmarked doors. I also felt like I never had any of the answers I wanted, only the ones I needed, but only in retrospect. I also was seeing the world in a remarkably new, yet deeply unpleasant hazy light. I asked similar questions and received similar answers, which, mostly turned out to be not so many answers at all.

“As happened each morning, I heard the wind-up bird winding its spring in a treetop somewhere. I closed the paper, sat up with my back against a post, and looked at the garden. Soon the bird gave its rasping cry once more, a long creaking sort of sound that came from the top of the neighbor's pine tree. I strained to see through the branches, but there was no sign of the bird, only its cry. As always. And so the world had its spring wound for the day.”

Chapter 5, Page 57, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles by Haruki Murakami.

This was after his cat disappeared which was also a sign of something to come. A few days later, his wife disappears. The spring has been sprung, and soon it will unclasp, and be released with great force. April 4th, 2021 at around 8:50 am was when my spring was wound up for the day and for some time after that. From then on, I would wonder when it will be released, and what will occur. As if I’m the ball atop the spring, ready to go, and the energy, even if it hasn’t been released, is still stored both in the spring and me.

I still feel wound up. Cranked into position, temporary submission, and I only feel the crank twisting me tighter, not sure if I can even fold atop myself more than I already have. What will occur in my release? Will it even be good, or will it simply be necessary?

Dec. 3rd and 4th, 2021, two black cats crossed my path. Both came from the same direction, from right to left, coming from a building to my right, stopping in the center to look me dead in the eyes, and proceeding to hop off the curb walking to the other side. The first was after I closed the restaurant. Now closing the gate, I walked back in the dark in the opposite direction. A domesticated black Bombay cat with no collar but seemingly healthy was either headed home or just going out for the night. I decided to listen to my superstitions instead of going straight home. I looped the block just to make sure I was safe.

A day later I left for a regular weekly long walk to go grocery shopping at my favorite Trader Joes in the city. I began my walk and not too much time passed when a woman all dressed in black with a black cloth mask, and long black hair pinned into a bun crossed my path. From right to left, stopped center, and gave me a look, quickly hopping off the curb and crossing to the other side. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t tell if I knew her or if it was something deeper than that. I couldn’t see her face fully with the mask on so I was left wondering who it might have been or what deeper meaning entailed her crossing my path. I thought of these things as I walked the four-and-a-half miles to Trader Joes. Still, taking my time.

I couldn’t decipher a meaning, but as I am now reviewing these events, and a few more events that took place, I think the pull of what this means to me is the search. I was heartbroken in the city, and woman in dark clothing weren’t just a part of my interest, but instead, a part of a deeper spiritual meaning. Birds sang different songs than they used to. The Hudson River seemed more sad than usual. Hands that weren’t there reached out to me and comforted me. I was feeling deeper, I was seeking deeper, because nothing I did could bring back the piece of heart that was never given back to me. I had to learn the only way to heal was by accepting this different heart, one that wasn’t the same, healing, but healing into something else entirely.

Oct. 29, 2021. After an incredibly long shift at the restaurant, I sprinted to make the last train of the night. When I sat down heaving for oxygen through my mask, I saw an older gentleman across from me with a case carrying an instrument. On top were three finished works of art, one yellow, one blue, and one green. He was folding paper cranes. Around him sat members of his band and each was carrying cases for their instruments. A bass, a flute, some sort of horn, and a dress, non-discreetly hidden with a black zip-up, that carried what looked like the eccentric leading singer. Everyone was talking to each other except for him. He sat in silence in the middle of them all focused on his creations. Fold after fold, with meticulous precision, bringing a flat piece of paper to life. I simply watched, curious, seeing deep focus at work. Every once in a while, between folds, he'd look up to catch eyes with those who'd be watching, and you could see his laugh lines curling up, his eyes brighten as he saw the curiosity in those he saw. I'm sure he was just as interested and curious as those who were looking at him to see how this piece of paper would transform. He and I caught eyes at one point. Once again, you could obviously see such an incredible smile under this man's mask, I nodded and smiled in return through my mask. he looked down at the yellow paper crane, paused his current work, picked it up, and held it out to me.

He said nothing to me as he passed me the yellow crane. I said nothing back. I don’t know why I didn’t say thank you, but I was deeply gracious, and I felt he knew that. I sat back into my spot, looking at the crane that much closer trying to decipher how he managed it, and looked back from time to time to see how his progress was going on a new purple crane he started.

There are forces in this world, hands unseen and seen that are reaching out, calling, speaking, offering, and receiving. Quiet forces at most times, and in these cases loud. I’m no expert in symbols, and I think it might be a great idea to reach out to someone who would understand these things more, but I can tell you how I felt in all three of these circumstances. Each was a sign of something to come. Something I could look forward to. Whether good or bad I wasn’t sure, but either way, life would continue, which brought me comfort. It meant that life would continue, and I would be skilled enough to live with the heart that I was left with. This new whole heart. And this heart could be whole enough to love as deeply, seek as deeply, smile as deeply, and feel as deeply as I did when I was with her. Something is to come, I don’t know what, or when, or why it will occur but it will, and my heart won’t be ready later, but is ready now.

Much love today and every day,

Matt Piper 🐅🌱