ANEW: When the Hawk Knocks—Answer the Door
The fierce urgency of now
We were supposed to be celebrating the quiet poetry of a Friday morning—five eggs folded and re-folded into peak scrambled fluff, a sizzling slab of Cincinnati goetta that never met a diet it didn’t insult, and a bourbon cake so boozy the angels tried to claim the angel’s share before we even sliced it. Pancakes had been the original plan, but the chemistry felt like too much. So instead, we opted for eggs. No milk, no cream, no cheese. Just eggs. My brother later told me I forgot the butter. He said butter was essential in making the Cincinnati favorite at his Cincy home. I told him butter in goetta that already had pork lard and mystery oats felt like putting beer in whiskey with a Crisco chaser. Some things just don’t need the help.
We cooked. We laughed. Then the fire alarms screamed like they’d seen the face of God. Two of them, in different parts of the house, going off not in harmony, but in argument. We couldn’t figure out how to turn on the kitchen’s chemistry hood—or maybe it was more alchemy—so we flung open windows, pushed open doors, desperate to clear the smoke and salvage the morning. Later, we sat down for breakfast as the smoke cleared. That’s when we heard him—like a baby’s shrill cry, as if it were pierced by an arrow.
We ran full-stop to see. Perched on a nylon camping chair on the front stoop like a disgruntled RSVP who'd been left off the guest list, a hawk sat glaring into the house. Not just watching—glowering. Like brunch had started without him, and he had thoughts. He seemed massive, or at least bigger than he really was in real life, regal, and agitated. Easily two and a half feet tall with a wingspan that threatened to encircle the doorway. His hooked beak pointed straight at me like a divine can-opener. And I swear, if he could talk, he would’ve said, “You forgot the invitation.”
This was not my first hawk. The first one came Easter Sunday, circling above me like a signpost in the sky. That hawk told me to go—to leave, to lift off, to trust. So I booked a flight to Mexico City and climbed the pyramids of Teotihuacán. I listened. I felt the guidance. The second hawk came three days later. Dead. Crumpled on the roadside like a discarded telegram from the other side. A reminder that messengers don’t always survive their messages. That grief rides shotgun with meaning.
But this hawk, the third one, this one didn’t fly above me or die before I could read the signs. This one came right up to the door. He wanted in. We stared. He stared. We asked out loud, “What do you want, Mr. Hawk? What is it you came to say?” I inched my foot toward the door, gently sliding it shut. He flared his wings, not letting loose of the chair, wanting answers. He stayed put. Angry. Certain. And somehow... familiar.
We thought, maybe he had babies in the house. Maybe he’d left something behind. Maybe we had something he needed. So I walked through the living room. I checked upstairs. Nothing. No feathers, no nest, no hawk family reunion. Just this bird, this ambassador of urgency, holding court on a folding chair like a supervisor waiting for his report.
I decided to go outside, through the garage this time, careful not to let him sneak in. I got about fifteen feet away and asked again, “What is it? What can I do for you?” He turned and looked at me—not just a glance, but the kind of look someone gives you when they know you know better. And then he flew again—straight at the front door, talons forward, beak first—trying to wedge himself into the seam of my brother’s house. He didn’t make it, but he made his point.
Eventually, the hawk left. Just... flew off. No grand exit. No resolution. Just absence, and a lingering vibration in the air like the echo of a song you didn’t realize you were humming.
We sat back down at the table, our eggs gone cold. We looked at each other and said what people always say after something sacred barges into the room: “That was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.” And then came the real question: “What does it mean?”
I’ve thought about that all week. That hawk didn’t come by accident. He came because something’s been burning—not just on the stove, but inside. He came because I’ve been circling, not soaring. He came to ask the question I’ve been avoiding: “What are you waiting for?”
Hawk medicine doesn’t whisper. It gusts. It slams into your life like smoke from a kitchen where you got a little too cocky with your cooking. It doesn’t ask politely—it shows up at your front door, parks itself on a lawn chair, and stares until you feel exposed.
The first hawk told me to go. The second one told me to grieve. This one? He told me to act. To rise. To stop crouching in the underbrush and take flight, for real this time.
So I’m listening. I’m elevating my mornings. I’m trimming what keeps me low. I’m writing this down with the talon marks still fresh, because medicine unused is medicine wasted. And I’m asking you: what is knocking at your door right now?
May you have the courage to open it. May you clear the smoke and answer the call. And when you rise, may the sky remind you how hunger-making—and how holy—it all really is.
Curated Listening:
I know that I have played IAmSon, the Christian singer and musician, but his birdseye view of looking at the earth from a great distance seems quite appropriate for “hawk medicine” again. Listen to IAmSon sing “Birds” (featuring Ryan Easter) HERE.
OMG, no words. I’ve been following your “hawk series,” and they are trying to tell you something, for sure. What an incredible experience to have.