“You need to take walks,” said Brené Brown on her podcast at the beginning of the pandemic. “You need to move your body in order to process the stress of these times.” It will bring clarity, she suggested. This seemed like a good idea, if a risky one. At the beginning of the pandemic, when so little was known about Covid-19, simply leaving the house felt like taking life into my own hands. But Brené Brown said do it, and she tends to be smart about a lot of things.

So began my practice. For the past year, nearly every day, I’ve walked the same hour-long loop around my neighborhood. What started out frightening rapidly turned banal, but a week ago took a new and interesting turn.

I was outward bound, two blocks from my house, when I spotted the first one. He (I assume he’s a he but that’s something to unpack another day) perched on a telephone wire, keeping track of my movements as I rounded the corner and continued down the block. A hawk of some sort. Hi there, Nature, I thought. I snapped a photo and carried on. 

The second hawk sat in my neighbor Claude’s front yard, cartoonishly large in the dogwood tree in which he waited. He watched me as I passed. It’s fine, I thought. I’m bigger than he is. Forget that I flap and flail whenever a tiny gnat flies into my eye. If the hawk wants to bring it, I can take it. 

We made eye contact, then he looked away. Was he looking for the other hawk? Were these guys collaborators or competitors? I started to feel smaller. While I didn’t fancy the idea of being the potential lunch of two different wild animals, it felt safer if they were competitors. The last thing I wanted was for them to operate as a team.

Rounding another block and into a cul-de-sac, I encountered a third bird. I began to wonder if I was an unwitting star in a Hitchcock reboot. I kept moving. Maybe I broke into a slight jog.

Since I’m writing this post, you know I did not, in the end, become bird crudité. But the whole experience felt weird. Later that evening, I googled “Does it mean anything if you see lots of hawks?” (because why not). Logic advised that all it probably meant was that I came close to encountering a backyard chicken coop, but logic makes for dull story fodder. Google, however (and God bless it), always yields something interesting. It suggested that I was being sent symbols to view my life from a higher perspective.

Irrespective of what one thinks of higher or unseen forces sending signals, this felt juicy. It’s when we take the 30,000 foot view of a situation that we can see things with the clarity we often seek. And I’m a creative thinker, but I’m not always a clear thinker, so adopting the 30,000-foot view feels like a useful tool for my toolkit.

We’re coming up on a year since the pandemic really took root in our lives. My kids’ schools have operated virtually for fifty weeks. The past year of radical disruption has prompted a lot of people—whether or not they they wished—to take the 30,000 foot view of their lives, figure out new routines and priorities, focus on what is essential, and let go of what they can or must. Easier said than done, and not without pain. But I do believe that, once we have dealt with the pain and grief (I read recently, “What is grief but love persevering?”), what we are left with, if we can see it, is opportunity. For rebirth, for growth, for fresh hope.

From 30,000 feet, my view is telling me to simplify, and to stay vigilant to the mysteries and magic that often materialize in everyday life.