H is for Hawk:

The pull of nature writing & revelatory grief

After surveying the jam-packed parking lot, it strikes me that I should have left home earlier. Who knew a movie based on a book published in 2014 would bring such interest? Well, when the screenplay is co-written by a local literary celebrity, it does make sense. This runs through my mind as I back out of the deep laneway leading from the busy street into the parking lot. Turning right a few streets ahead I find a spot not too far away and hurry up to the front door.

All matter of middle-aged people are jostling in the lineup that snakes from the street into the small lobby of the ‘rep’ theatre. Some craw about not knowing how to find their tickets one their phone, others quietly nod to one another, and I reach for the front door to hold it open a bit too early before my turn. This means the tall man in front of me leans into my arm in a way that almost feels like an embrace. It might be one but for the layers of outerwear between us.

I’m not the only one by myself, but most folks are with at least one other person. It’s mainly women. I see a few colleagues and pretend not to see them. Who wants to engage in silly small talk when you’re jammed into a tiny space just dying for popcorn and a good seat? What would we say anyways: “Have you read the book?” or “I’m so excited for this.” Needless.

Anyways, I only want to be with myself. My dark mind imagining what the film will show us, what I will remember about the book. How the two will diverge. It’s not as crucial to me as it seems to be for others that the movie faithfully reflects the book. Isn’t art about interpretation? If people are so upset don’t they know they’ll always have the book anyways. We choose to get alarmed about odd things sometimes.

Entering the chatty, stuffed to the rafters theatre I spy a lone seat on the end of a row about 2/3 of the way in. Perfect. Popcorn in mouth and time to survey the audience. I spy a sworn enemy colleague, and we lock eyes for a few seconds. Of course she’s here, which is, of course, what she might be thinking too. More popcorn and a long slurp of cold fountain Pepsi.

My ex lives 2 blocks away, he never wanted to come to this theatre because of the shitty seats. I mean, ok, he’s tall and that part I get. But a bit of discomfort for something that could change your life? How is that not a great trade off? We did see one film here together, a documentary about David Bowie. It was very psychedelic.

The previews start and the curtains open while the theatre darkens. Movies are magic. My dad would always take me to movies on our Sundays together, he didn’t seem to mind what I wanted to see. Whether it was Gremlins, ALL the Rocky films, Harold & Maude, or I’ve Heard Mermaids Singing- what a glorious film (Who didn’t have a crush on the Curator?). They all are, I suppose, in their own ways.

One question strings through my mind- why didn’t the author write the screenplay? The author that no longer identifies as a woman but now is referred to as non-binary. The author who wrote a book about losing her father and falling apart in the wings of a goshawk, a large, fierce forest-dwelling raptor. Known for its long tail, broad wings, and exceptional agility when chasing prey through trees, it’s sometimes called the “phantom of the forest.”

How fitting for the story of shedding almost all semblance of who you are in the wake of a loss that must feel impossible. I don’t know the feeling yet of losing a parent, but it’s on my mind more and more as we all trundle towards that final line. That reminds me, I need to get a will in order.

Phantom. Like the sleep that’s been appearing and then floating away night after night while I cuddle no one in a hot pool of unsettled hormones, unprecedented stress, and meditation music on low. Cats merge with my legs and then flee when I tussle too much, only to take up watch under the bed. They see it too; they know about the universe far more than we know. Nature.

The most beautiful thing about this threatened planet. Animals. The wise, warm beings who pass on knowledge to their offspring, whether they’re a bundle of mice, a slippery colt, or a panda cub born as big as a gummy bear. The animals who gather at our feet while we do our work and try to keep a hold of our lives, soft as clouds and grounding like weighted blankets. How we join together and become inseparable is a thing of wonder, a constant flooding of love that feels so easy to give.

In the movie the goshawk is called a less than affectionate species. This fact makes the lead character Helen smile as she says it during a mental health intake. Helen is indeed depressed; her career has become as meaningful as a single sock found at the bottom of the laundry basket. Useless in the gaping void left by her father’s sudden death. Useless in the way that academia can feel when we’re up against dwindling attention spans, automation, and ivory tower culture forged in the old metals of men.

Her father the photographer, who taught her to see the world by looking at it. By taking it in and registering even the tiniest of observations as meaningful in some way. Showing her the beauty of wild. Of engaging in wilderness in the ways we so choose no matter how frivolous or weird or outlaw. This includes buying a goshawk and training herself as much as this magnificent bird to fly again.

Also, to hunt. For not just rabbits or other birds, but for the renewed reason the sun rises and sets. For the reason to stand on the earth and say I’m here. I’m here and I love birds and this bird saved my life. Her name is Mabel, which means “lovable,” “dear,” “beautiful,” or “to love.”