** Trigger warning — this blog is about a hurt animal who died due to trauma
I have never believed in coincidences.
I believe in fate:
with people and the connections they make
with a new pet coming into your life when you need it most
with situations happening exactly when they should, to promote growth
I do, however, believe in Carl Jung’s concept of synchronicity when it comes to “meaningful coincidences.”
This is not like the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon, aka, the frequency illusion. You know when you have your eye on, or test drive a certain car, and then all of a sudden you start seeing that exact same make/model everywhere you drive? It’s not that the same car wasn’t there before in all of those places; it’s just that your brain has been tuned to now recognize it more often.
No, synchronicity suggests something deeper than that. When a moment happens that seems too perfectly aligned with your situation but does not have any direct cause-and-effect relationship to that situation.
It’s like the universe is telling you, “This is something you need to pay attention to.”
I see a moment like this as part of the bigger, unnoticed connection between what’s currently happening in your personal life and the external world.
Two moments such as this happened yesterday that caught my attention, but I didn’t put the two of them together for my life and current situation until this morning when I discovered the ugly truth.
My favorite podcast is Left, Right, and Center. One of the panelists, Sarah Isgur has a profound way of speaking exactly what I’m thinking. So do Mo Elleithee and David Greene, but yesterday, during their famous Rants and Raves segment of the show, Sarah had me.
Recently, while in heavy traffic, a chickadee collided with the windshield of her car. She stopped traffic, rescued the little guy, took him home for a time of rehabilitation, and later released him in a moment of profound happiness.
What a hopeful story, and hearing it lightened my heart in a way I really needed at that moment.
A few hours after listening to the podcast, just minutes before I was to start a counseling session, I heard a great “thud” on the sliding glass door of my back porch. I rushed out of my office to see if a bird was hurt but did not see anything other than several birds flying off. So, I thought nothing else of it. I recalled Sarah mentioning how, at the start of spring, the male birds become very territorial as they seek out their mate, so I figured this was what had happened.
But, this morning, when I started my routine of pecan tossing to the squirrels who had already lined up for breakfast, I saw this
And my heart just hurt.
Immediately after the counseling session, I had gone outside to try and ground myself, and sat in the chair directly next to the one that was over the Common Ground Dove. I can only assume, since I did not hear any rustling or any noise, (even over the sound of my own tears because counseling was HARD), that the little guy did not suffer long and had quickly passed away after the collision.
If I had paid attention, I may have seen the bird struggling and made an attempt, like Sarah did, to put it in a box, in a quiet place, and maybe it would have survived.
But, I didn't see it, because I didn't look close enough when it first happened.
So, I went inside, trying to see where I was going through even more tears, found an old handtowel and a paper bag, and grabbed the shovel. I thought about just putting the bird in the trashcan, or even dropping him over the backyard fence into the field so he could return to the earth. But I just felt obligated to honor the moment and the life that was gone, and I somehow felt responsible for the loss.
One bird got a second chance.
One bird did not.
And it is within my reasoning to see the synchronicity in all this.
When it comes to where I am currently in my situation, I can't help but wonder—
Which bird am I?
Am I the chickadee, waiting for someone to see my struggle, step in, and give me a safe space where I can heal?
Or am I the dove, unseen and unheard, the damage already done, and my fate is sealed?
The doves on my back porch weren’t just fighting. They were battling over space, for control, for something that was supposed to be shared. I feel like I'm battling for space, for understanding, struggling alone to protect something that is supposed to be a joint effort instead of left to an army of one for its defense.
It was easy for me to assume the thud was nothing; it's happened before with no consequences. The stunned bird had moved on, just like those before.
But underneath the chair was the truth I couldn't see.
I assumed that since I didn't see a hurt creature, the situation would resolve itself, much like in a struggling relationship. But the unspoken pain, the unraveling resentment, and the slow damage to a connection aren't always that obvious until it's undeniable and too heavy for just one person to hold.
Burying the dove felt heavier than it should have. I wasn’t the cause, but I still felt responsible. And maybe that’s the hardest part—I don't feel like I'm the one creating the struggle, but I'm the one who is carrying the weight of it, wondering what I should have done differently. Wondering what I'm now supposed to do.
The timing of these moments is just eerie. The doves fought for space, one lost and went unnoticed until it was too late. Elsewhere, a chickadee hit the glass, but someone stopped, saw the struggle, and gave it a second chance. Two birds, two drastically different outcomes.
And somehow, it feels like a reflection of something much bigger happening in my life.
One bird was left to struggle alone, unnoticed, until it was too late. The other bird was seen, cared for, and given a second chance.
Much like in a relationship, the difference between breaking and healing often isn’t just about recognizing the one who is struggling alone. It's also about who chooses to pay attention, to look closer at what's really going on, and to take action to address the core issue before the struggle becomes too great to repair.
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