The Story of The Feather. A gift from a Shaman. (4 min read)

A channelled piece, layered in inspiration, meaning and filled with healing. My guides gift to us all.

Once a feather fell to Earth. A soft white feather. It gently floated to the ground, swaying back and forth in the air until it softly touched the ground.

It didn’t make much of an impact. No one bearly noticed it. It barely noticed touching down itself, so soft was the landing. In just floated around on the Earth, moving in the wind. Being blown from one place to the next. And it was happy enough with that. Occasionally bumping into other things; a pretty discarded sweet wrapper, a crunchy autumn leaf. The feather saw each thing with beauty in its heart. But soon enough it was blown on.

It wasn’t really part of the world. But just blew apart observing it. Cities and trees. Families and animals. Grass and concrete. It took pleasure from its journey through the world. And it was happy enough.

It didn’t like it when it rained and poured. It was left sodden and mishapen for days. Or when a dog caught it in its mouth and shook it about. The feather understood it meant no harm, and the experience was normally quick, but it was happy when it was dropped.

It took days sat in the sun to dry itself off and fluff itself up again on the wind. But it always managed to do it.

Occasionally a smiling child would find it when the feather looked like that. All mishapen and muddy. And although the feather was ashamed of its appearance, it loved the time it spent in the child’s hands being lovingly cleaned and preaned back to who it knew it was. It reminded the feather of a time from before it fell, before it was alone floating about on the earth. But the feather couldn’t quite remember what that was, so long the fall had been.

It was saddened when the child finally let the feather float off on the wind. But it continued its journey non the less. Happy enough.

One day it blew onto the beach, and lay on the damp sand. The feather didn’t mind this so much, but preferred the quiet dirt. It was soon caught in the tide and got stuck in the damp sand. It was battered for days, maybe weeks, by the cruel waves. Sometimes feeling like it was in another world altogether when he was buried in the sand or peaking up from the sand looking through the cold ocean. When it managed to get itself dry, it was a harsh sun which beat down on it. Not fluffing it’s fronds as the wind has done, but baking it into a mishappen twig. Water, sun, water, sun. Day, after day, after day.

Occasionally it was trodden on by big boots, deeper into the sand. Or dug up and flung about by a dog. Sometimes it was picked up by little hands and used as a flag on a sand castle. The feather felt happy in these brief moment’s and did it’s best to look the part, even though inside it felt broken. But these moments were soon over and the inevitable tide soon rose and pulled the castle out from under it.

It had no choice but to exist. And to carry on. But it had no control over what happened to it. It felt alone and broken. And would often look up to the sky that it fell from, trying to remember what it felt like before. What it felt like when it was part of something else. When it was a part of a whole which soared above the Earth.

One day, a girl picked up the feather and looked at it like the children had done before. She picked at the dirt. She took it to the tap and washed her clean. She dried the feather on the breeze and fluffed it with her fingers and it felt good. The feather wanted to remember every second of this, as it knew it would soon end.

The girl put her in her pocket for safe keeping. The feather lay warm in the dark and comfort of the pocket and felt joy.

When the feather was next taken out it was in a house. In a warm lit room. The girl braided her hair and tied the feather carefully into the braid and bonded it with yarn. The feather felt such intense pleasure in this and relished every second of it.

The hair was soft that it lay in and golden. The girl carefully washed the feather as she washed her own hair, and it felt good.

One day the feather felt the braiding begin to loosen and braced itself for another fall. But the girl tightened the yarn that held the braid. And the feather was safe again.

Another time the girl undid the loosening, warn yarn altogether and the feather was sure it would be set free on the wind again. But the girl found new blue yarn, and retied the braid with the feather. Another time it was splashed with paint, and the feather feared it would be discarded, but the girl loved it even more for its new beauty of pink and purple splashes.

The feather loved the girl and soon began to lose its fear of being thrown back into the wind. It rarely thought of the sky from where it fell or tried to remember what it had been then.

Here the feather still had no control. But that was ok. It was happy and took joy in every experience it felt and saw. It was no longer part of the whole it had been before, no longer blown about, unnoticed on the wind. Here, here it wasn’t just loved and cared for. Here it was special. Here it was on display for all to see. Here it was an individual among a head of golden strands.

The feather began to get fragile. But neither it nor the girl cared. It carried on being retied and washed. It carried on being loved. It was fragile but blissfully happy.

Then one day, as the girl ran along in the sunshine, with the blue sky above and the green grass below, the sound of laughter ringing in the air, the feather simply fell apart. It simply fell apart as she ran, different parts of it blown about on the wind. She felt the loss and the girl put her hand to where the feather once was. She desperately searched her hair and around herself for the feather. But the feather was no longer a feather. It was not even being blown about on the wind. It was part of the wind itself.

And as the feathery wind blew about the girl, she fell to her knees and sobbed for the loss of the feather. The feather tried it’s best to comfort her, but all it could do was to let her feel it’s gentle breeze on her skin. And that gentle feathery breeze, unnoticeable to most, gave the girl comfort, even though she didn’t know why.

The feather was sad to be parted from the girl. But it had been loved so much, that it was filled with love. So full of love and care was that feather, that it could no longer be contained within the feather. It had to share itself across the wind. And there was bliss in that for the feather.

But it was no longer a feather; nor was it really the wind either. It wasn’t even what it was before it fell. It was something new. Still special. Still white. And pink and purple. But now it took joy in being barely noticeable. As now, the feathery breeze, could take the love that the girl filled it with and it would be that love where ever it blew.

And from time to time, the feathery breeze, would spot a special person, who was laying on the Earth broken. And it would take the love the little girl had given it, and do the only thing it could do. It would take joy in comforting those who could feel it, those special people who could feel the feathery breeze and not know why they took comfort from that breeze, but they did.

Love as always

Rachael x

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