Caedmon

a devotional for late winter

Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

the old story goes 
that a cowherd on a craggy coast
was given a vision of Creation
and learned that night
to sing;

but that’s all one to the owl
who perched at the top of a tree
in the gathering twilight
of our quiet yard

and bellowed across the distance
to an answering call
from somewhere unseen;

I wonder, sometimes:
what visions the singing things must see,
to sing so often and so loudly, 
great hymns of raucous praise

splitting the night
with the wildest edges
of God’s glory? 

The other night, I had the honor of actually seeing an owl, singing away at the top of a nearby tree. We get to hear owls all the time, usually the Great Horned Owl, the Northern Gray, or the Barred Owl (my personal favorite; their personalities are such a delight), but rarely see them. 

In this case, walking around with the dog in the failing light, I could hear two Great Horned owls calling back and forth to each other, and one of them sounded very close. So I backed away, raised my gaze, and sure enough: silhouetted at the very tippy-top of a Douglas fir was one of the owls. Even in silhouette it was such a joy to watch it fidget and preen and listen to its companion before leaning forward and letting out its signature hu-hu-hoo, hu-hu-hoo, hoo! in reply.  

I wrote last week about frog songs, and it occurs to me that this season always feels drenched in music as the frogs, birds, and bugs all start to wake up and prepare themselves for warmer days, courtship, and the turning of their life cycles. Spring, especially this earliest corner of it, feels resonant with the passing of songs back and forth, two owls calling in the dusk, a whole chorus of frogs creaking and squeaking their little hearts out. 

The old legend of Saint Caedmon is one of my favorites, and his feast day was this past weekend. I’ve written out his tale in a previous post here, but the short version is that Caedmon was an “untalented” (read: tone-deaf) cowherd who was given a vision of Creation one night, and thereafter became known for his ability to make incredible music. His hymns still survive today as examples of some of the earliest faith music and verse from the Celtic world, which is pretty incredible. 

But the thing I think is interesting about Caedmon is that his real sorrow wasn’t that he couldn’t sing, but that he couldn’t share. In the old days, it was normal for Celtic gatherings to involve the sharing of songs, stories, and other skills among the community. Caedmon felt he had nothing to give, and he isolated himself from these gatherings for that reason, until he was given a revelation. That was his real yearning: to be able to share with others.  

I thought of Caedmon when I watched that owl, the other night. There is yearning in all singing things to share. Sure, for most singing creatures it’s because they want to attract a mate, but isn’t that still a deep desire to connect? To relate? To seek and say the sacred? 

In the beginning was the Word, after all. Voiced, a thing shared.

In that sharing was the germ of Creation, and so it remains.

---

Moved by this piece (or simply feel like supporting my coffee habit) and want to contribute a one-time donation? Click the Tip Jar button below!

For more writings like this, subscribe for free!