women – Old Soul Medicine Crow

Turtle the Chimney “Sweep”

October 4, 2025 Old Soul Medicine Crow4 Comments

On Monday as I was leaving the office I found, at the bottom of the steps outside our back door, a mother and her teenage daughter mulling over what to do about an injured bird. As our steps lead almost directly to the street, the bird had possibly been hit by a car. It was stunned with one wing oddly askew like it might be broken. I stopped to assess the damage. It was as if we all knew, the mother, the daughter, me and maybe even the bird that I was the one taking it home.

The mother and daughter wouldn’t know this but I had once successfully raised a baby crow who lived voluntarily in our trees for quite a while after it fledged. I could come outside and yell its name and down it flew to land on my arm for a snack. After I thought it was grown and gone it twice returned injured for a safe place to recover. But that was a baby I’d once fed mashed up worms. It remembered it’s mama Crow. Crows have long memories. This bird, which I first thought was a swallow and later proved to be a chimney swift, hadn’t intentionally sought me out…or had it. Injured animals seem to gravitate toward me. I used to take evening walks to the local courthouse to watch the swifts come in. We called them “sweeps”. My work office is less than one block from that same courthouse. The bird had been injured and landed in the path I take every day. Unbeknownst to me a co-worker had seen it four hours earlier and had decided to leave it but check on it later. Then, the mother/daughter duo worried over it but had no intentions of touching or moving it. I am no stranger to animal rescue. I immediately picked it up. Because of Covid I still had plastic gloves readily available. Thanks to the Beverly Hillbillies there is probably a whole slew of women my age who grew up with the nickname Ellie May for their propensity to capture injured animals and try to nurse them back to health. That’s what Mom called me but I was rarely successful. Nature is a great teacher.

It was a hard lesson to learn but it’s often better to let nature take its course…unless I know there is something I can do. I am quicker to recognize impending death these days. But I still can’t leave the dying to die alone. In this case, my instinct to take the bird might have also been driven by my attempt to relieve the mother’s guilt for disappointing a brooding teenage daughter. I could tell they both needed to think they had done all they could. I could give them that. I took the bird because that’s what I do. I couldn’t let it lay in the gravel and grass until a neighborhood cat decided to make it a toy, or the sun dehydrated it. I thought at the very least, I’d give its death some dignity. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d provided this service. Death Doula to people and animals. Even as I placed it in a cardboard box, I dreaded telling my boyfriend/housemate about our new roomy. He wasn’t around for my dog rescue days so he may not be fully aware of my proclivities to drag in injured animals.

First, I took it to the same veterinarian who helped me with dog rescue to see if its wing was indeed broken. “Looks like it is fractured,” she confirmed. She did not set bird wings but gave me the name of another veterinarian who treated birds. Selfishly I wondered what it might cost and if I was willing to bear that cost. Domestic pets, it turns out, are the only birds veterinarians treat. I called three vets who all said to call wildlife rescue. The only wildlife rescue I could find informed me their Kentucky affiliates had no permit for songbirds which meant the swift and I were on our own. As I write this, it occurs to me, my daughter is attending the latest Taylor Swift Album release in a movie theater. She is decidedly a “swiftie”. I have never listened to Taylor Swift’s music but this little bird has turned me into a “swiftie” as well. Its slim cigar-like torso and pointed wings, the gray top feathers melting into a snowy underside and the sweet way it turned its head to look directly at me when I held it in front of my face or slowly closed its eyes when I stroked its back, made me fall in love. Its beak was as delicate and tiny and black as the tip of a cat’s toenails, but not curved. Looking straight on, its eyes and short bill resembled the face of a turtle, so that’s what I called it. Turtle. It should be said that both sexes look alike in this species and I have no way of knowing whether Turtle was male or female. I deemed her female for no good reason at all.

I hate that we rely on google for so much of our information these days but it is a wealth of knowledge. I did read in my old-fashioned bird books as much as I could about the species, but they don’t tell what to do if you find one with a broken wing. Anyway, google said to keep it still and in a dark place to prevent further injury and then immediately take it to wildlife rescue. Immediately. So much for that advice. I did start it out in a small cardboard box with a makeshift nest of dried grass. The way it climbed up and positioned itself on the side of the box made me research further and realize it was a chimney swift. Whenever I picked it up, its talons clung to my finger like a baby’s first instinct to grasp, another tip that it was a swift. Turns out chimney swifts don’t perch on branches like other birds. They fly for hours or even days at a time, taking their food on the wing. They are aerial acrobats, almost always moving. Most of their diet consists of flying insects so they are extremely beneficial to humans in that way, cleaning up mosquitos and other pests. When they do land for the evening or to make a nest, they cling to the inside of a hollow tree…or a chimney or other tunnel-like structure. Their clinging feet are necessary to adhere to vertical, sometimes slick, surfaces. I anthropomorphized this grasping behavior as if the bird were holding onto me for its very life. That kind of oxytocin release reminded me of all the dog rescue I engaged in during my empty nest years.

Hundreds of dogs I took home from the shelter, bathed and housed. (All dogs come home from the shelter with the same foul odor.) It only took the first bath after leaving the shelter for a dog to follow me faithfully and make me their person. I knew what I was doing while I was doing it—avoiding the pain of my daughter’s impending exit, the truth of my dysfunctional marriage—but I ran into all kinds of rescue folk over the years who were unaware of the lonely hole they were desperately trying to fill. It’s easy to believe an animal loves you when you’ve intervened on their behalf. For the most part, I kept my head about me. The veterinarians I worked with liked my ability to be realistic. Once I knew a dog’s personality, I ran a match-making service with local families to place it in a forever home. I became addicted to learning each personality and it’s true the feel-good sensation of unconditional love is immeasurable. Rescue work is rewarding, but dirty and filled with harsh realities.

I was right about my boyfriend’s response. Gregg was mostly concerned about diseases and insisted I disinfect every place I’d even set the box. I explained that the bird was in a small box which was inside a bigger box so there were two layers between it and any surface. He didn’t buy it. I googled again to find that chimney swifts aren’t known for carrying diseases and are no threat to humans. Sometimes their nests attract mites but I had no nest. Histoplasmosis is a fungus that can grow in bird poop once it has composted but it doesn’t exist in the poop itself as it comes from the bird. I hoped this might waylay Gregg’s fears but I doubted he’d be any happier. He insisted I leave the bird and its box outside.

I wondered how I was going to feed “Turtle”. They prefer to catch insects in the air but that was not likely from inside a box. Although I did catch a couple of spiders and a fly for her. She was either not impressed or still in shock from the jolt that upended her carefree existence. The book said when insects were scarce swifts would eat seeds or berries so I placed both in a shallow dish alongside a saucer of water. I knew not to force feed with a dropper for fear of setting up pneumonia but I did offer a droplet near her mouth and it opened for two swallows of water.

After the first night, I thought the tiny bird needed some daylight to inspire its recovery. I didn’t have a bird cage but I exchanged its dark box for a small cat carrier. I attached hardware cloth on the door’s grid to prevent escape or the patient’s cock-eyed wing from getting stuck through the openings. The new space brought new movement. That screened door became her favorite roosting spot since it was easy to hold onto. I still couldn’t tell if she was eating but the food got dispersed as she moved about the cage so at least she knew it was there. Gregg knew I was concerned and joked that I could tie its feet to a string and swing it in the air to catch insects. He thinks he’s funny. But then he did have an interesting idea of putting a piece of fruit in the cage to attract insects, which I tried.

I didn’t have any real expectation that the bird would live. I thought at most it wouldn’t die by predator. But as one day turned to two and then three with more activity each day, I started to think of possibilities. I decided I’d give it a couple more days in the cat carrier and graduate it to a dog crate. I have a large one left from my humane society days because with me, you never know. I would create a chimney in one corner so it could roost properly and if I saw it gliding down from there, even for two wing flutters, I would find a safe place to open the cage and see if it could take flight. Then, I worried that it would live but not fly. Was I prepared for long-term care? What kind of life would it be to go from aerial freedom to living in a cage? Neither of us wanted that. I envisioned building a greenhouse, something I’d been wanting anyway, so it could have some semblance of an outdoor life. It was curious to me how many images google had of chimney swifts sitting in the palm of someone’s hand. I had taken that picture myself. Most bird pictures aren’t featured in someone’s hand. Do people make pets of them? I read that some swifts have been known to live as long as 12 years in the right conditions, yet the average lifespan is about two years. I had no idea how old this bird was. She looked so young and delicate to me yet she was the size of a full grown swift.

Then, on Thursday night, she died. It had been her most active morning and I’d seen her climbing the wire door in the middle of the day but by nightfall, she lay face down on the bottom of the cage. She could have starved but she pooped every day so I thought not. Maybe her body couldn’t take the shock. My guess after the fact is that she had an infection which I had not known to treat. I know she would have died anyway, without my intervention. Still, I wish I could have done better by her. I really don’t know how I would have administered antibiotics but I will think about it next time…because…there will be a next time.

I am grateful to Turtle for bringing me a whole new awareness and appreciation for chimney swifts. They are amazing creatures with a soft heart and a gentle soul. I don’t know if I made what was left of her life better or worse, but I know this: Death is a sacred act. I have witnessed it many times, with humans and with animals. It is sad to say goodbye, but it is an honor and a privilege to hold space in those last holy moments. At least she didn’t die alone. Fly away, little Turtle, fly away.

Alchemy

February 26, 2024 Old Soul Medicine Crow4 Comments

Alchemy: a power or process that changes or transforms something in a mysterious or impressive way.

I went to dinner in Lexington with some women. Friends, and friends of friends. Three of them had birthdays in the same month so not only was there reason to celebrate, after dinner we were attending a reading by another friend who was celebrating the release of her latest book. A night out for the ladies.

Since we had gathered primarily for the literary arts, the dinner conversation began with literature. Who recently read what, which books are must reads, what we’re currently writing, and morphed into general story telling since most of us were writers of one form or another. One person’s story reminds someone else of a similar story, reminds another, and so it goes. In this instance, we traveled the world going from Chicago to Milan to New York and all the way back to Kentucky, where we all currently live. One theme that emerged was housing. From tiny squeeze-ins to expansive high-rise sublets to starter homes, the ladies spoke of lucky breaks, exigent circumstances and turning bad situations into good. I saw a theme emerging.

“Alchemy,” I said.

“What’s alchemy?” my friend asked. I explained poorly that it was a term referring to the medieval attempt to turn base metals into gold. But that today it also meant just what she had been saying, how she’d turned a bad situation into a good one.”

Then, “Martha’s” Kentucky story of purchasing a farmhouse without prior knowledge of the den of snakes who had taken up residence beneath the front stoop drew gasps from everyone.

“I’d have to back out of the sale,” one said.

“Or put it right back on the market,” another chimed in. “You didn’t stay there, did you? Is that where you live now?”

The fear of snakes always sparks eeks and cringes followed by other close encounter stories. I’d venture to guess we all have snake stories. These ladies all did. The fear of the serpent is likely the most common phobia. We love to hate these creatures.

I, too, am no fan and prefer not to get personal with a snake. I thought about reminding us all that snake symbolism was originally that of the divine feminine and that maybe we had been conditioned to fear snakes based on the patriarchal need to control the innate power of women. According to Ted Andrews’ book Animal Speak, seeing a snake denotes resurrection, renewal, rebirth (shedding of one’s skin to become anew). In dreams, simply encountering the snake is thought to be the subconscious awareness of a pending new cycle of life. Being overly afraid of the snake symbolizes fear of the changes necessary for internal growth. Getting bit might symbolize the level of resistance or blocks you’re throwing into your own path. I’ve had plenty of these dreams throughout my spiritual awakening journey as well as in person sightings. An explanation like this might be interesting, but it rarely does much to allay a well-honed fear of snakes. Thinking of the power of transformation, I juxtaposed one of my own snake stories instead.

I am the third generation of my family to inhabit the family farm, in a house that was built in 1901. Dad refurbished the house, mid-seventies. Insulation, Drywall, paneling, popcorn painted ceilings and area rugs turned the place around, even before electricity or plumbing was added. Instead, fireplaces, a Warm Morning stove, outdoor toilet and a rain barrel became our every summer adventure, heading back to a small abode with a thermostat and a real bathtub during the school year. We merrily frolicked at the river’s edge, raised cattle, pigs and chickens, the occasional mule, helped Dad with tobacco, hay, planting and harvesting vegetables, hunted arrowheads, shot BBguns, picked blackberries and maintained a healthy awareness of snakes like we lived in the 19^th century. In his head, my father sort of did. I was having the time of my life. Today, I am grateful for this character-building years-long sojourn into the past. My parents installed plumbing and a few other upgrades and moved into the farmhouse after all of us children were grown, around 1991.

In 2012, due to Mom’s cancer and other circumstances, my father bought a house closer to town and nearer to doctors and the hospital. The farm is isolated with sometimes inaccessible country roads. Since I was freshly divorced, he convinced me to take up residency on the farm so that the empty house would not get vandalized or become a drug den.

In the seventies, Dad didn’t believe in the future of electricity or otherwise could not envision the number of useless appliances the next generation would find not only convenient but necessary. He felt ahead of his time including two whole outlets per room. Re-learning how to live in an old house whose electricity has not been modernized to meet today’s standards and whose prior inhabitants had learned how to “make things work” without actually having them repaired, included several “combinations” of actions I needed to learn to keep the house running smoothly. Namely, deciphering the tangled web of which outlets in how many rooms, both upstairs and down, whose wiring led to the same 15-amp fuse. I should have bought stock in Buse fuses for the number of boxes I purchased and went through in those early months, grateful they still existed.

Another thing he made sure to tell me was about the relationship he had formed with a huge black rat snake that lived in the shed out back. As I’ve indicated, snakes aren’t even my favorite subject, but out of reverence to my father, I listened to his tutorial.

“You know I store feed in that building, for the cattle. Mice get in it and make a big mess. That big snake keeps the mice and rat population down so I like him being in there. He’s not poisonous and he never bothers me. When I go into the shed to retrieve the lawn mower I talk to him, warn him I’m coming in. He may be hanging from a rafter or laying on the ground someplace. I pull the riding mower out and start it up. When he hears the engine, he comes out and makes his way down toward the pond. I guess he’s getting a drink. I don’t see him again until after I’ve finished cutting grass. Later in the evening, when it’s quiet, I can sometimes see him returning to the building. We’ve been doing this for years. We made a deal.”

“Okay,” I tell him, “I can live with that.” Even though secretly I thought, okay then, I’m not going in that shed, which turned out to be impossible. So, I did indeed follow in my father’s footsteps and tried my hand at snake whispering, which might or might not sound more like clanging and banging and yelling warnings rather than actual whispers. I named the snake, Earl.

Dad cut more grass than the immediate area around the house. He had cleared and tamed almost an acre of land, to keep the snakes at bay, he’d said, even though he made exception for Earl. He thought it wise to claim territory separate from the wilder fields and fence rows that bordered the woodland’s edge to provide a clear view of encroaching wildlife. He advised me to do the same. But since he took his riding mower with him to the new house and I still only had a push mower, I hired a neighbor to keep my lawn tidy. I told him the snake story and asked if he could please respect my father’s wishes and look out for Earl. “It’s been there for years,” I tell him. “It doesn’t want to harm anyone.”

Vernon was on the lookout for Earl, no doubt. His first encounter with Dad’s rat snake shocked them both. He entered the shed looking for a weed eater. The lanky sentry hung from a rafter at eye level as he entered, probably wondering who the hell this guy thinks he is entering Herbert Crow’s field mouse buffet. After that, unbeknownst to me, Vernon began strapping on a sidearm before arriving to mow the grass.

After a month or two of cutting the grass with no further incidents I thought all was well. However, one day, Vernon gave in to his own fears and ignored my sentiment about the friendly cohabitant of my abode. He knocked on my door, and using a hoe to extend his reach and not actually touch the old guy, held out his conquered prey to me the way my dogs string out a dead rabbit on my doorstep…as a gift.

“That’s Earl,” I say, confused.

“Don’t worry, I got him,” Vernon said. “I hate me a snake. That’s why I carry this.” He proudly pointed to his waist band where he’d holstered the offending weapon. The story he told was just as my father had described, the snake heard the mower and came out of the building to head down to the pond, minding his own business. Only Vernon didn’t care where he was going. Seeing the snake, he chased it down with his lawn tractor, close enough to get a good shot with his pistol because he sure as hell wasn’t going to get off that mower and possibly get bit. He also wasn’t going to let it out of his sight for fear of where it might go…and…he didn’t want to miss. Poor Earl had made it all the way to the fence row, about to cross the threshold to safety before he felt the blow. Vernon was proud.

My father had warned me about the snake we’d named Earl. But we both failed to warn Earl about the viper named Vernon.

“Oh, that’s so sad,” said the lady who would have instantly sold Martha’s den-of-snakes’ house.

“I can’t believe he did that!” said another. “Did you let him keep mowing your lawn after that?”

“Do you hear how you have all changed your attitudes from loathing to compassion and concern for a snake?” I ask, “Now, that’s alchemy.”