Hunting Snipes

Photo by Deb Lecos

          An uncle sent me on a nighttime hunt for a mystical bird called a Snipe. He said that no one had ever captured the elusive nocturnal creature, so the details on what it looked like seemed to change depending on who told the story. For years afterward, I listened for rustling in bushes when the sun lay asleep, peering into shadows in search of the graceful movement of wings. As with most childhood enterprises, I gave up hunting for Snipes letting them fall into the depths of the ocean along with the memories of monsters who walk upright and look like normal people. Decades later the forgottens suddenly surfaced and nightmares screamed.

     A seemingly impossible task befalls the broken, traumatized, and besmirched. The ability for full healing; a tantalizing glimmer sparkling just on the edge of awakening, only to be hidden once again dropping into a silent darkness. Gathering the shards of a shattered heart and mending it requires an understanding of what one looks and feels like whole. This may be found deep beneath the scattered pieces, without fault lines or whisper flaws, the full nature of an unblemished spirit waiting to rise to take flight.