Family of Great Horned Owls

Great horned owlet (CA) Photo by C. Misen, 2025

There is a pair of Great horned owls who return every year to their nest in an oak tree near my childhood home. My sister, who lives part-time with my parents, sends me pictures of the owlets' progress, their adorable fluffiness, and their distinctive stares, growing bigger and more wide-eyed with each passing week. Their existence in this busy suburban environment is miraculous and tenuous considering busy roads, rodenticides, pesticides, and the threat of fire. And yet, they return, because of instinct and enough beneficial conditions for them to thrive.

In early May, my daughter Alexandra and I flew into town to visit my parents. For the past 15-years, my mom and sister have been my dad’s sole caregivers, driving him to his medical appointments, preparing nutritious food, encouraging his independence, keeping him safe, and so much more. The source of their untiring compassion can’t be anything else but Love.

My sister had warned me that Dad was sleeping more and eating less. He no longer had the energy to get out of bed or watch movies in the family room, which is saying a lot for a lifelong cinemaphile. When Alexandra and I first entered his room, his eyes were closed and he was listening to classical music on a small portable radio, his feet barely moving to the beat under the layers of covers. “Hi Papa.” Alexandra’s gentle voice stirred him from his reverie enough to open his eyes, smile, and reach for her hand. He recalled a memory when he was three, traveling from New York to California in the family car with his parents, their stopover in Kansas to meet his mother’s parents, how he threw pebbles in the well and how nobody was angry. He also said he was ready. It wasn’t uncommon for Dad to talk easily about death, but this felt different.

The next morning, Alexandra and I got out for some fresh air. We walked through the park to see if we could find the owlets, but they weren’t in the oak tree so we scanned all the trees in the grove. We stepped over owl pellets and a partially eaten crow baby. A hummingbird buzzed us while sparrows and wrens made their warning sounds. We were uninvited guests in an active community so we sat down to appear less menacing. Then, we spotted the fledglings perched next to each other on a low limb of a pine, their mother higher up, standing by to insure their success against predators like hawk, raven, and other competing owls.

Dad entered hospice on the third day of our visit. Hospice felt like a mother owl: present, experienced, guiding, and supportive. My mom, sister, daughter, and I, were just like those owlets, learning by doing, becoming quick studies, taking cues from Dad, when he gave them, and otherwise following our heart and intuition, a type of instinct we all possess, given the opportunity. At night, we took turns sitting at his bedside so that others could get some rest, but inevitably we’d stay up in pairs so no one had to be alone. In silence we listened to his breathing and the distant chirps of the few nocturnal birds in the yard. Before dawn’s first light, the Mourning doves cooed, announcing another day.

On the afternoon of the sixth day, my son Nick arrived. His presence strengthened the circle and gave us the boost we needed. I’m sure Dad was relieved too, at last, his grandson had arrived with his deep tender voice and willingness to help out when everyone else was running on empty. In the early evening, Alexandra and Nick took a walk to check on the owls. The owlets, still together, had moved to a higher branch in the pine tree. Mother owl was nowhere in sight. She might have been hunting or perhaps she was expanding her protective circle as parents will do–close enough to help if needed, but far enough away to go undetected. Great horned owls will stay with a parent for a mere six months, becoming more independent with each month, while honing their hunting and silent flight techniques.

After a late dinner, we all gathered back around Dad’s bed. His breathing seemed a bit slower, but he didn’t seem to be in any discomfort. Someone started telling a story, and then another person and pretty soon, all of us were engaged in the easy back and forth rhythm of our family, punctuated by laughing and crying. All of it exactly as it should have been. And then at 10:30, Dad’s heart stopped.

I don’t know for sure what Mother owl and her owlets have to do with this story, except to say that without them it seems incomplete. Owls have the ability to see through darkness, are excellent hunters, and masters of camouflage. In my few but memorable encounters with Owl, they’ve appeared when I needed a guide on my spiritual path. I think this was one of those times. I believe that they were part of our sacred circle of caring for Dad. Their presence taught us about empathy and awareness. Each time we approached their space, we walked slower, lowered our voices, and sharpened our senses of observation. All skills we needed back at the house to provide the best care for Dad and each other.

Dad was a gifted observer and teacher. Among many lessons, he taught us how to be safe in the ocean by reading the waves and riptides, that one way to know a landscape and understand Earth time was to read the strata of rocks, and indirectly, that keeping our senses open to the natural world could help us navigate life. I’m sure there were hundreds of people who walked by the grove of trees and never saw an owl, my sister wasn’t one of them. Because of her awareness and our family's keen curiosity, we made time to be with our animal kin and feel the ancient connection, not just to them, but to all creatures.

In the days after Dad’s transition, I saw the owlets a couple more times and then never again. They are busy, I reasoned, becoming self-sufficient and guiding those who might need them. Even when the owls aren’t there, I sense them, their presence is an everlasting symbol of this time. The last time I stepped away from the grove, I happened to look down at the understory, and there it was, an owl’s primary wing feather, the ones that help propel the owl, a perfect reminder of our interconnectedness with all beings–those alive and those moving beyond. I love you Dad.

  “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” — Rumi