What led me to pick up a book about birds, I do not know. Perhaps it was the binding or whimsical sketches. Maybe it was walking through this hundred year old shop in Paris that made me feel like picking up something timeless. Whatever the reason, it traveled some mileage and now the first chapter sits cracked open in my hands and I find myself connecting with my jaw on the floor.

You see, it begins with a chapter on ducks. Molting is an annual occurrence where birds lose their feathers before growing new ones. They have to wait for all their feathers to fall out, and for all the new ones to come in before they can fly again. This species of ducks in particular have this vulnerable season regularly so they know to keep a low profile. Careful not to engage in regular duck activities, for if they tried to fly with imperfect feathers, they would fail. Their patience is an absolute must for their survival. 

Ducks have regular molting seasons and know what to do with it. It might not be annually, but it had me thinking that we certainly have a human equivalent to a molting season due to life circumstances. However, do we allow ourselves in those seasons to be as patient as ducks?

After my dad passed away, I felt like I had lost all my feathers. I didn’t want to engage in normal human activities, but I felt like I had to.

I worked out a lot. I said yes to different opportunities that came my way. I put down things that were vulnerable and picked up things I could calculate. Now that some of these things have tapered away, a disconnect I’ve felt behind the scenes, is registering. Perhaps I wasn’t quite done molting. 

I did what the world expects. You are allowed to mourn for a short time. But then you have to keep going. Keep performing. Keep posting. Keep keep keep. It seems to make others uncomfortable if you act how you actually feel. Or talk about it. So I didn’t do what felt more natural to me…cry, lay low, sleepover at moms, get help. Well I did…for a bit. And then, I tried to fly half feathered.


In times of hardship, we do what we think we can with the knowledge that we have…right? All I knew is if I go to yoga, I will get through the day. If I distract myself, I don’t have to feel. If I keep busy, I’ll keep going. If I post the picture, it looks like all is well. Perhaps that is survival mode at it’s finest.

With all the grace in the world for myself in this hard season, I wonder if I clipped my wings prematurely. The ones that were coming in but did not emerge fully because I only allowed myself to molt halfway. And so the rest of my feathers weren’t quite ready when I pushed myself into takeoff.

Like a boiling kettle, dreams and flash backs bubble over when I least expect it. Spontaneously jarred into moments of grief, feelings creep up on me any given day. It’s like my body and mind and heart jump out to say, “remember this. You didn’t grieve this.”

And so I grieve in patches…but who is really telling me I have to do it that way?

Transitions, loss, changes, friendship shifts, and family struggles - any sort of these can be a season of human molting. If we allow ourselves to feel the feels for awhile, and not bow ourselves to the worlds motto of : “go, fight, win, now!”…we might actually give ourselves future gifts.

Time, healing, vulnerability, love, peace, understanding, empathy, compassion, self care…The more I think of it, the longer the gift list goes on. I am starting to think it’s never too late to give yourself time to heal. 

When I was nursing one of my sweet babes and had a couple of bad latches (that’s when the baby doesn’t have proper positioning and can do some serious damage to a mama) I kept nursing and ignored the pain. Eventually, I ended up with wounds so bad I couldn’t continue. I finally read the holy grail of breastfeeding books (the Artful Way of Breastfeeding) in which it shared ways to heal. You can keep going using salves, deep breaths and moist wound healing…but it will take a long time to recover. Or, you can heal faster and more fully…if you just take a break. 

I stopped nursing and started pumping. It was just for awhile, but it was a hard decision for me. In my mind I didn’t want to take care of myself over what I thought was best for my baby. Making the hard decision to stop, I put the salve on my poor nipples constantly, gave my baby the bottle, and eventually I healed up. Completely. I went back to nursing just fine.

I share this story only to say even the physical body tells us a story. Often we fight against ourselves to hear it. Honestly, I would’ve kept going, stayed in pain and not enjoyed the wonderful nursing relationship with my son I ended up having if I hadn’t taken the sage advice; Pause. Be patient. Heal. Then..fly again.

What is your body telling you?

What is your life telling you? 

What is your heart heavy with repeating?

If you are in a season that needs healing, maybe think of ways you can slow down. I send you love and peace as you walk through it. Stay there until you are ready sweet bird. Everything will be there when you get your feathers again. 

If you glided over your molting season, I encourage you to take some time to lay low. There is no shame in a pause. Process what you went through and be fair to yourself. Taking time to understand what you need now is a gift. What do you need?

Maybe you are flying right now with all your beautiful feathers in tact, but I bet you have a loved one that might need a little feather covering. If someone comes to mind, think of ways you can lift them up. Write their name down. And just like that, you can spread your full wing to lift another duck in the air.


Wherever you are coming from, I appreciate you being here. I imagine there will be more bird reflections to come from this little book from Paris. Until then, I am molting with you.

XO,

Jenna

“He will cover you with her feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge…”