At first look, it appeared as a beautifully woven tapestry. Each thread had worked its way into a life event, a memory, a mark in time — the fibers of individuals who’ve known each other for decades.
There’s really no way to break in, no place to offer a thread of my own, to weave myself into the story. Even as decorative fringe, my threads aren’t the right color, thickness, or style.
On a rare occasion someone offers me a thread — a token of inclusion — I study the weavings, hoping to find a section I can comment on, even be a part of, but the tapestry is too ancient.
These weavers, like a flock, descend on the park and take up every available bench with their spread-out selves. Suddenly, there’s no more room to sit. I find my place on a bench on the edge of the park, as that’s the only place.
None of them move over to include me in their space. They carry on just as they have for many decades before, never acknowledging that we are in a new decade, that we must weave a new section of tapestry.
It’s time to appreciate and embrace new weavers.
It’s time to notice the color of a newcomer’s thread.
But they remain oblivious.
A Starling lands nearby.
Not imagined—received. It came to me once before. It arrived unannounced in a meditation, shimmering and certain. Its feathers catching the light—dark from afar, iridescent up close.
They say the Starling teaches the art of communication, how to find your place in a group without losing your voice. How to sing in harmony, or stand apart, depending on the moment.
It doesn’t need their bench.
It doesn’t need their approval.
It knows what it is.
The Starling reminds me:
My thread may not match theirs,
it isn’t meant to.
I am not fringe.
I am song.
Behind the Starling
A note from the author
This piece came through me during a quiet moment, almost as if it had been waiting. The Starling is not just a symbol—it’s my spirit animal, revealed to me during a group meditation where we were each invited to meet our guide.
I saw the bird clearly: dark, iridescent, strange and beautiful. When I shared this with the instructor, he dismissed it, even questioned whether such a bird existed. I went home shaken, but searched anyway—and found the Starling. There really was such a bird, just as I had seen it in that quiet moment.
That moment stayed with me. I realized later that it was not a mistake that I was overlooked in that room, just as I have often been overlooked in other spaces. It was part of the lesson.
The Starling came without permission. It didn’t need validation.
Neither do I.
