A Hypothesized Barn Owl

My early childhood is blurry, specifically memories with family. The blurriness focuses around the age of seven- which how incredibly convenient, considering the most impressionable years of a child’s life are their first seven years. My foundation was beautifully damned from the beginning. Beautiful, because if it was not damned, I never would have known resilience. When trying to access and reflect upon these aged memories, I’m met with flashes of emotionally charged situations a seven-year-old child has no business being a part of. Most of those emotions fueled of anger and spite, stemming from personal unsatisfaction. My parents were unhappily married with troubled backgrounds themselves, so they did the only thing they knew how to when being faced with unprocessed emotions. They would take out their frustration on whoever or whatever was around them, or they would run from their demons- and their children. I can attest to the saying “you are the natural byproduct of your environment.” As a result, I become an anxiety-induced, socially awkward kid and later teen. However, opposed to the voluntary element implied in that saying, there is not much a child can do to change their surroundings. Despite the limited freedom a seven (or so) year old has, I was lucky enough to discover an escape of sorts. The tiny blue barn offset to the right of our cookie-cutter farmhouse.

It appeared to be a weathered barn with an approaching life expectancy from the outside, but from within, it was thriving. The dull blue, almost white, colored exterior was no match for the warm, comforting interior. I had a home with a bedroom, bathroom, and family next door, but for whatever reason nothing felt more like home than this empty enclosure lined with hay. And maybe it was because it was just that, an enclosure. Once inside, I religiously inserted the small metal hook from one door, into the ring on the other. All my worries would fall away in that moment, and the hours following, knowing that I was safe from the outer world. If anyone wanted something from me, they had to knock and give their reason as to why I should open the door to them. Nobody was able to uninvitingly enter, and that alone gave me peace. I was by myself for most of the time spent in that barn, but completely at home and at peace.

The cement floor was sprinkled with hay as it stored a few small bails, in which were stacked against the right wall, falling short of covering the lonely window. Naturally, it provided a perfectly cushioned window seat. This is where I did schoolwork, wrote in my journal, loathed, and fantasized. I was entirely content with the life I had, but my soul knew there was so much more. I would always get this feeling whenever I would look out the window at night. The scene was comprised of an army of trees behind an open field of lifeless corn. The land technically belonged to the farm across the road, but its business was failing, and nevertheless the corn was too. Though, that is not the point, it still painted an evident picture in my juvenile mind. If one aspect of you is not doing well and you are not tending to other aspects because of it, like dominos, parts of you will fall one after the other. All of what you were might fall to the ground, forcing you to build completely anew. And that is okay because it is likely for the better. But, if you have the strength, you can catch yourself in the process, aware of the parts that already fell. Once you’re willing and able to pick those parts back up, you’ll show up stronger than ever before. Hence, resilience.

Looking out of a window made me realize all of that and more, but applying those concepts to my own life after making those realizations was another concept in itself. I felt like I was searching for something, for meaning or reason to take action forward. I was stagnant, awaiting a lightbulb moment. I didn’t want to adhere to my parents’ and society’s conventionalist ideas of going through years of schooling to become a professional in a path that had already been paved. I wanted to explore the vastness of the world and carve out a path personal to my needs as an introverted idealist. I didn’t have any of the who, what, when, where, why, and how planned out yet, only faith it was coming. And through blind faith that lightbulb moment came, but not in the spontaneous flash I had envisioned. It was far from that. I would describe it as more of an explosion…

Come 14 years later, at the age of 21, I found myself sitting at that same window seat. This time holding onto emotions unaligned with faith. I came with the same rage my parents had displayed for me during my childhood, as well as the despair and disappointment of broken dreams. How was I becoming exactly what I set out not to be? Unfortunately, the answer was simple. It was easy. All of it was laid out in front of me: elementary school, intermediate school, high school, college. The people I trusted wanted that life, so ultimately, I convinced myself I did too. Now I was a junior finishing my sixth semester of college, pursuing a Psychology degree in hopes of becoming a physician’s assistant. All because I was too afraid of the judgement I would face if I wandered off the familiar path beaten by generations of feet. It was winter break of college, so I had a month to myself. A month in which I was prepared to visit home and swallow the pill of reality. Sitting in front of the window, looking out, I saw the same scene with different eyes. Eyes once filled with creation, possibility, and contemplation were now about as worn as the paint on the barn. I knew I had nobody else to blame but myself, and that infuriated me. I started throwing bails across the barn and screaming, which escalated to pounding my head against the splintered walls and falling into the hay covered cement. Ugly tears of hatred effortlessly streamed down the sides of my face as I surrendered to the icy floor, silent and still. I stared into the single floating lamp above me, waiting for it to fall, hoping. Passing away from a barn lamp sounded like a pretty good way out, and unconventional at that. Once I processed the likelihood of a lamp actually killing someone, I shut my eyes and just breathed. For the first time in what felt like forever, my mind didn’t dare to taunt me. So, I laid there, listening to swaying trees for at least 20 minutes, surprisingly at peace just like I used to be.

The entrancement of swaying trees was broken by a cooing. I’ve heard cayote howls and birds chirping during all of the years I have grown up here, but never cooing. It intrigued me. I stood up, ignoring the fact that blood was dripping from my forehead and onto the floor. There wasn’t anything new in sight from window, so I willfully unlocked the doors and ventured outside. The trees could be heard swaying for a reason, it was extremely windy in addition to the classic cold Wisconsin weather. I circled the barn twice, losing interest in looking any further as my hands were becoming numb. After erasing all of the evidence of my psychotic break (forehead included) with paper towel and cleaner I found, I headed back to the house. Usually, the house lights made it easy to see on the way back, but there was maybe one on this time. As I approached the porch stairs, accepting my defeat, I stopped walking. A white flash caught the corner of my left eye. I didn’t know whether to be scared or interested. In that split second, I decided to be interested and traced the left side of the house. Immediately after peering around the corner, my eyes were drawn to a white bird illuminated in moonlight, sitting atop an abandoned silo. I think it was a barn owl.

I woke up the next morning on the couch, strangled in blankets and gauze wrap. My mom was passed out on the recliner across from me. I pulled the blankets down and saw I was wearing the same clothes as the day before. In the midst of trying to comprehend what the hell happened to me, my mom suddenly shot up, spewing a million words a minute. She rambled on about how careless I was, finally questioning why I had blood covering my face when she found me lying in the barn. I told her what had happened, how I cleaned everything up, walked back, and saw a white bird. She thought I was insane and delusional. Apparently, I was sprawled out on the barn floor, bloody, and unresponsive. She had carried me inside, cleaned up my forehead, and wrapped me in layers of blankets because I wouldn’t stop shivering. She said while she was caring for me, I had one word on repeat, “silo”. I told her that’s where I saw the bird. Her heated, scrunched face melted into tears. She had no idea what I was talking about as the nearest silo would be found on the farm across the road. Frustrated and probably wondering where she went wrong as a mother, she retreated to her room to decompress the horror scene I had created for her. I remember feeling horrible, but that sense of guilt was quickly subsided as I replayed the chain of events in my head. The panicking, the light, the wind, the cooing, the bird, and the silo. It was fresh in my brain, as I had experienced all of that. I know I did…

Four years later staring out of my newly acquired office space overlooking Seattle, Washington, I think back to that night. I can’t help, but laugh. It really took a breakdown and a white hypothesized barn owl to derail my existence as a human being. In what was a chain of events, become the chain reaction to my success as an established writer. From personal experience, I have learned that anything is possible. And through writing, I am able to tend to my needs as an introverted idealist. My laughing fit soon turns into a crying fit, as I am so unbelievably grateful for that night and what it has led to. I scramble to leave my office as I’m almost late for my first business meeting with one of the cofounders of the company. Panicking a little bit, I take deep breaths along the way. The lights are blinding and I’m walking so fast that I can hear wind. Chattering fills the background as I try figuring out which room it is. I finally find it, and I’m greeted by an abnormally attractive man as he welcomes me into the room. He sees the evidence of tears I forgot to erase from my face, and (unprofessionally) embraces me. Warmth flushes through my body. We stand there holding each other for what seems like 20 minutes. He seems flustered, and apologizes for acting so unprofessionally, finally introducing himself.

“Nice to meet you Finley, my name is Silo.”