Raven Song

Today I’m reflecting on how I’ve walked into a quiet and radical reorientation of perception. Where silence is speaking and everything around me feels more alive, more intimate. When the veil of separation thins, the world slowly reveals itself with intention, spirit, and story. 

This soft attunement has arrived through grief and deep listening. The animate world doesn’t just surround us—it invites us in. And that takes years of devotion to quieting the noise to show up with offerings of presence.

This morning, as I sat in conversation —speaking of deep roots grown in our becoming, witnessing with open hearts and letting go into the unknown —a Raven flew overhead and perched in a tree nearby. Its song rang out: that ancient, mythic call that seems to cut through time. 

Its echoes became ceremonial, a witnessing of the threshold we find ourselves in.

In Norse myth, Odin—the wandering god of wisdom—sent his two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, across the worlds each day. Thought and Memory, they were called. Huginn carried the clarity of perception, while Muninn held the weight of what had been—ancestral knowing, soul memory. Odin feared they might not return, but feared most the loss of Muninn. To forget, he knew, was to lose the thread of oneself.

Ravens are messengers of such thresholds. They appear when something in us is crossing over. They are tricksters and creators, shape-shifters, keepers of paradox. They carry the wisdom of death and rebirth, of endings that make space for beginnings. In learning to listen with the Ravens, I’m learning to listen more deeply. To the signs and the relational intelligence of the world around me.