Do ut Des: an offering to the crows

A crow near Mabel coffee shop, using Google Photos’ “Vogue” filter

Greetings on an almost convincingly Spring day here in this beautiful Cascadian city. Cloud cover is still nearly complete, direct sunlight an ephemeral presence through brief and ever-moving lacunae, but there is no rain, and the wind, when it races down residential streets and around the corner of this residential-looking cafe, meets my standard issue Seattle puffer jacket and abates, bearing no effect on me. Everything is in motion, and inherently if superficially unsettled, or even troubled: the passing cars, the napkins under my coffee mug, the anxious, jittering terrier at the adjacent table, even the white-pink blossoms from the tulip trees, which have just reached full bloom and are starting to drop to the ground where the wind picks them up in little roundels, and the trees themselves, left swaying in the breeze as that awkward “greening” adolescence (the blossoms separating from the more permanent green leaves that have just arrived…) takes hold, one dropped blossom at a time, before they attain their summer form. All this yet Thursday forecasts a high of 77 degrees. This is Spring in our current planetary epoch, where Winter has yet to conclude and Summer is ready to interject.

OK, enough exposition, anybody can do exposition. You’re here for the crows.

Do ut Des, “I give that you may give”: this is the transactional method by which Greek and Roman paganism proceeded. The adherent would make an offering (non-blood or indeed blood sacrifice) in order that the deity would in turn give something sought by the adherent. I’m not an expert in comparative religion, but it’s still unclear to me how, mechanically, this is different from prayer in the religions of the book. The pre-Judeo-Christian gods were apparently unfeeling in regard to human affairs, focused as they were on their own intrigues, and needed something pretty great in fairly well-prescribed formulae in order to act on a human’s behalf; Yahweh & etc, on the other hand apparently had nothing to do other than meddle in human affairs, but they (I mean, right?) cared about us, even if they had a funny way of showing it, and if they received and acted upon prayers, it was not by some transactional logic but by various constructs of, err, caring caprice (I guess my people call it “grace”). Whatever: whether one sacrifices or prays, they want something, is the point.

But again, I’m not really thinking of gods or appeals to gods. I’m thinking of crows. Crows run this town, and I wouldn’t (and I’m mindful that they might read this publication and come for me so I’ll be careful) say they do it silently or with any regard for how observable their activities are. From my unstudied observations, they seem to have the town broken up into wards, and each…murder of crows assiduously tends to the administration of their ward. And what do these activities entail? Sitting on our power lines, defecating on our cars, collecting all of our unattended food, and bearing intergenerational grudges, for starters.

But perhaps there is more to it. Here is what a crow does: in the absence of an immediate food source, they perch on the ground, then fly up to a wire (again, like the power line that connects from the street to my house) or rooftop, they make multi-point, 360 turns, then fly back down to the ground. They’ll repeat this cycle for hours (again, with a break to shit on your car). Oh, and they’ll caw, of course, that minor eldritch terror of a bird call that is their hallmark. If there is food around, they’ll work at various methods of ingress into wherever the food is stored. What’s the best animal at the Woodland Park Zoo? The non-resident crow (of course, obvious answer, are you still paying attention?). Mind your stroller and any snacks stored therein. Oh, they’re still in the package? Doesn’t matter, that’s what beaks are for, hammering away at 21st century packaging to unleash the Gold Fish splendors within.

The crows will have their offering, whether it is occulted from them, out in the open and not intended for them, or indeed if you lovingly prepare and give it to them (You can do it, it’s not like it’s going to encourage bad behavior or anything, that behavior is a given).

For those making an offering: Do ut Des, what do you seek? Is it a protection racket? If so, what do the crows preserve and sustain for us, provided we sustain them? “I give to the crows that they might protect me and mine“ (a perfectly sensible transaction with divinity). Perhaps they offer something more, though. “I give that they might sustain me, emotionally and psychologically, and continuously so, ever diligent in their vigils and unfailingly moored to my neighborhood, that they might make of my home the respite from extraneous actors and forces that I need it to be.” I like this and think it’s potent: crows as maintainers of place, of their ward, of your ward and mine.

February 12

Today a day of public pageantry and ritual. A great day in sport, to be sure, wherein the participants rage at each other on the field, and the celebrants consume food and media indiscriminately. But equally, for those not given to the game, a time for rituals of engagement in the erstwhile busy and often oversubscribed city and its infrastructure. A day to hoist your child above your head on the playground, a day to run through the public parks with abandon, a day, in the ultimate assessment, to give to the gods some portion of your communal pleasure. 

February 8

Settling into my chair and likely the first sleep of the evening. This is an old practice, I've read, dating back at least to medieval Europe (is it a healthy one for me, a "guy who goes on his computer all day" for work, not a worker of the land?). I'll drift off as soon as the cognitive churn abates. At around 2 in the morning, I'll wake and realize I'm not where I'm meant to be, ergonomically or domestically, then move to the bed. The cognition will start again, and I'm sure I'll regard my phone and perhaps read war headlines, but will drift off again within the hour, whatever thoughts remaining transitioning to handlers of the unconscious whose machinations I may or may not remember in the morning.