Dimes

Fieldnote on Crows, Serendipity, and the Other Side

A murder of crows has moved into the neighbourhood.

At first, they arrived as chaos.

Five in the morning. Cawing. Squawking. Squirrels protesting from the trees. Wings flapping. Territorial disputes. Tiny dramas unfolding before coffee.

The circle of life, repeating itself as it always has.

Villains to some.

Victors to others.

Talisman.

Messenger.

Nuisance.

Teacher.

As with most things in nature, the crow becomes whatever story we are willing to tell about it.

For many Indigenous peoples across North America, crows are not merely birds. They are messengers, tricksters, shape-shifters, carriers of wisdom, and beings that move between worlds. Their stories vary from nation to nation, but they are almost always regarded as intelligent, transformative creatures …reminders that life is often more mysterious than it first appears.

I find myself drawn to them.

Not because I understand them.

Because I don’t.

So one morning, in the spirit of neighbourliness, I left them a dime.

The next morning, another dime appeared.

Not where I had left it.

Perched strategically on the gate.

Now, I am fully aware there are rational explanations for this.

A squirrel.

A coincidence.

A previous dime I somehow overlooked.

I am what I often call a skeptical mystic. I question everything.

And yet.

I also want very much to believe.

Because dimes have followed me for more than twenty years.

Since my grandmother died.

Then my brother.

Then my other grandmother.

In an age of debit cards and digital wallets, dimes continue to appear with improbable persistence.

In my pocket.

On a doormat.

Perfectly centred on a sofa nobody sits on.

Waiting in places where they seem less discovered than delivered.

Little metallic interruptions.

Tiny reminders.

A small hello from the other side.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps simply an invitation to remember.

The older I get, the less interested I am in proving the source of these moments and the more interested I am in what they awaken within me.

Across from our shop lives a family of pigeons high atop one of the historic buildings.

One stands watch.

One gathers.

One leads.

Together they tell a story as old as life itself.

Belonging.

Partnership.

Survival.

The continuation of things.

Since Mr. Anderson and Oliver passed, I’ve found myself paying closer attention to the feathered and furry neighbours around me. They seem to be quietly kintsugi-ing parts of my heart I didn’t realize were still cracked.

The pigeons.

The squirrels.

The mourning doves.

And now, the crows.

Perhaps that is their real gift.

Not messages from beyond.

But invitations into the present.

A reminder that life is still happening.

That wonder remains available.

That grief and gratitude can occupy the same space.

The crows wake me before dawn.

The dimes appear where I least expect them.

And together they seem to whisper the same thing:

Pay attention.

You are alive.

What a miracle that is.

Whether the dimes come from ancestors, angels, coincidence, or simply a mind searching for meaning hardly matters.

Because every once in a while, when I find one glinting in an unexpected place, I think of the people I miss.

I think of the love that shaped me.

I think of the invisible threads connecting past and present.

And for a moment, the distance between here and there feels very small.

Just ten cents, perhaps.

But somehow worth so much more.