In the middle of December, a neighbor of mine–who I’ll call John out of respect for his privacy–nearly committed suicide. He’s a friendly and well-adjusted guy who I never would’ve expected to do such a thing, but he did. At very nearly the same time this took place, a group of crows began to make recurrent appearances around the neighborhood. I noticed when the crows began to show up and thought it was odd, but I tried not to read too much into it. It was only a week after the crows made their first appearance that I found out about John’s attempt to take his own life.
Though John has a good life and is well-adjusted, he had his reasons for wanting to end his life. His older brother committed suicide last year, leaving a wife and children without a husband and father. John felt guilty for not being able to stop his brother’s death and, in the absence of a reasonable coping strategy, became progressively overwhelmed by alcohol abuse and depression. John also felt a desire to be reunited with his brother, which he thought could be accomplished by his own act of suicide. All of this misguided reasoning conveniently sidestepped the fact that John would’ve left behind his own family to suffer needlessly if he had succeeded in his attempt.
Understandably his wife was distraught and had him put in a local clinic to help in his recovery. There was a great deal of pain and anger on her part, since she felt that John had made an implicit statement about how he valued his own family by his willingness to abandon them in order to rejoin his brother. Of course this had nothing to do with John’s rationale, but it’s easy to see how anyone could draw that conclusion under such circumstances.
A week ago, John returned to his family and seems to have recovered from the incident. He’s now taking steps to address his alcoholism and has outlets for his grief which he can access more readily than before. He’s been forgiven by his wife, and he has a renewed opportunity to honor the memory of his brother without ushering himself prematurely to the same fate.
Meanwhile the crows have departed. I haven’t seen them in two weeks, and as much as I love crows, a part of me is glad they’ve gone. Maybe their presence was merely a coincidence; maybe it was more than coincidence. I’m not inclined to think of them as omens of death, but the thought has certainly crossed my mind.
Another thought has also crossed my mind. Maybe the real lesson of the crows is not so much about death as it is about life and how best to live it. When they came, they were together in one group, cackling and cawing to one another with the relish of children on the playground. They were constantly communicating, interacting and enjoying each other’s company. They were a community, and from that shared bond they derived a strength that none of them would have possessed alone, a strength that gave their lives meaning in the face of death, a strength that we too can share if we will only make room for true community in our own lives.
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