The Baby Owl at the Threshold

I had the most wholesome dream last night. I was in what was “my home,” and that home had a sliding glass door to the backyard. I looked over and the door was slightly slid open, and standing in the gap was the most darling, sweetest baby owl. The owl was stretched, taller and thinner than a normal owl, colored in soft brown, tan, and white. I went over and slid the door closed, keeping the owl outside, and went about my business.

I looked over again and the door was once again slid open just enough to frame the baby owl standing in its opening. Again, I closed the door.

The next frame was the cute and tall baby owl standing in my home, in the area between the kitchen and living room, fully inside the house, cutely. It wasn’t doing anything, I was just… aware of its presence. I don’t have any memory of guiding it back outside, but I must have, because the next frame was me looking over at the owl outside the glass door, watching “my baby” (indiscriminate, but I knew it was my baby) slide the door open and let him back in.

So that’s how you keep coming in.

I suddenly remembered the dream this morning. Oh! That cute baby owl. The whole thing felt soft and oddly delightful.

Owls decidedly signify wisdom, seeing in the dark, an inner knowing. But this wasn’t an overarching owl, or an owl sitting high up in a tree out of reach, some ominous overlord. It was a cute baby owl, patiently waiting for an innocent extension of myself to… let it back in. And once it was “in,” it just stood there… existing.

I’m sure dream theorists would have a field day with this one, but for me it feels like a delightful, soothing little allegory. Like unwrapping a sweet board book gifted by the deeper rhythm of life, filled with tender watercolor illustrations. Unexpected figures as new characters appearing at the threshold, invited in by the softest and most innocent part of myself.