My name was Mary-Joe Wallace and by the way, the Hindus are right.
Rebirth is scary. When you are used to boring suburban life in nowhere Nebraska, hatching 300 feet in the air in northern British Columbia is shocking to say the least.
But damn, what a view. Well, at least when your eyes finally open.
You don’t get it at first. I lived a good life, I really did. I respected my parents, I went to church, I even did volunteer work at the local nursing home. Sitting up in that tree shivering in the cold, always hungry, I thought what did I do that was so bad that I’ve been reborn to this life of cold and hunger and fear?
Then I flew.
When you are out in the wilderness and you hear that scree from a hawk and think it is such a lonely sound, you could not be more wrong. It’s the sound we make when we can no longer hold in the joy. It’s the sound of ecstasy.
And it gets better.
Some days you just know things.
Today I caught a field mouse for lunch. The life of a field mouse is not fun. There is no flight. There is only fear and hunger and a constant sense of doom. Every shadow from above is a hawk like me coming to end you. And I knew that field mouse was the man that ended Mary-Joe Wallace and he knew me.