Stone — Tim Girvin
of us has meaningful stories to tell; parts of our life passage
that have touched us, deeply. In some ways, stories like this captivate
our experience in many ways. On the first level, the stories reach
out to us to give a basic physical and emotional lesson, then —
with time — this import deepens. And the story achieves a
message of greater and greater depth. This is the very nature of
storytelling. You hear the story and you understand it in one way,
on one level. Then, with time, you learn more in gathering the threads
of the myth, as the story is told again and again.
Here is one telling, from my experience.
Since I was young, I've had a relationship with Corvids —
the bird family of crows and ravens (also of jays, camp robbers,
and magpies). In our office, images of these birds are everywhere;
they are in old Japanese scrolls and screens, sculptures of the
Ravens are arranged, there are also European and American prints
When I was young, I was first called to them — the Ravens.
My family and I were visiting at an old cabin on a lake in Idaho,
a family estate of an older eastern Washington family. There were
no roads to this place; it was accessible only by boat. Cabins and
other structures were arranged along the water. A great, dark and
burgeoning forest of ancient trees gathered behind; they rose high
into the hills, up and up, over the lake. I had explored the
waterfront but I was called to the elder woods, out back. To enter,
I had to climb, as the hills went straight up. Pines arose all around
me, blocking out the sun.
As I made my way, off in the further reaches of the forest was a
distant calling. It sounded like hammering, a rhythm — the
ripping of saws. But it was distant, muffled in the array of the
great trees. What was this?
I kept climbing and the sounds would rise, like the work was quickening.
The next moment, it would diminish and disappear. It would be clearly
there, then gone. I stood alone in the quiet of the forest, listening.
The calling would start again, and I would climb higher. Soon, the
grand blue arc of the lake was revealed below — set like a
sapphire in the verdant hillocks. The trees behind me got older
and wiser; the forest, except for this vista out to the lake, blackened.
Walking in further the sunlight was held, far back, in the nape
of the hills, but strokes of lightshaft found their way through
the trees. The branches dusted the air with their pollen. It was
cathedral-like, but there was the calling, like some discordant
ritual choir that now was building into a crescendo.
I kept climbing, following the cacophony.
Then finally, in the deepest part of the forest, light beamed down
to an open circle. There was movement, and curls of dust, like smoke.
There were birds there, many birds — and they were calling.
As I came closer, I could see that it was like a meeting, a congregation
of Ravens. Having never really seen these birds before, this was
frightening, because they were big. Black. Loud. They were flying
in to rest, lifting off, hopping, moving and, all the while, cawing.
It was a call to disorder, a secret forum. The light beat down,
despite the noise, through the swirling dust past the deeper sentinels
of the forest.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I got closer. The scent of the fallen
needles and the old ground is still there, in my memory. The vocation
continued. I edged closer, but somehow there was fear. It was a
fear of unknowing — of "what is this?"
Abruptly, I got a feeling of the sense of being watched... that
subtle tickle at the back of my mind, the light twisting of the
hairs on my back, my neck — the arising sentience —
reaching out to feel everything, in danger. I was still at the edge
of the clearing, the Ravens scumbling in the forest dusting were
Following the sense of foreboding, I turned slowly, so as to not
distract the other birds. There, high up, tucked far into the darkness
of the branches was a big Raven, much larger than the others. Its
head turned slightly, its eyes staring down at me like an old master
of the woods. It was Merlin, looking down, cloaked in black. Watching
He seemed to say, "Now, you have seen. What will you learn
from this?" I lay there, watching — looking, listening
to the celebration. This communal gathering, with the Old One, overlooking.
And then quietly I crept away. The Old Raven, watching me, slowly,
silently turning his head to trace my path.
Although I was a child, I knew that there was something symbolic
here, in seeing this gathering. But it was really years before I
began to interpret what this could mean for me. Each story has its
layering; at the beginning, a story is merely a telling, but successively,
the tale achieves a deeper understanding that perhaps speaks to
the heart of us all.
In traveling, from Tibet to Costa Rica, from Mongolia to Japan,
from Canada to Mexico, France to Italy... I have found that the
Ravens are there, everywhere. They all seem to look at me with the
same question — watching me, for an answer.
To this day, the presence of the birds, both in nature and in my
surroundings, calls to me to reach deeper — and to grasp the
reminder of that day in my childhood: "Are you here? Are you
listening? Are you paying attention?"
I've drawn this story, painted and scribed on a flat claystone.
I found the stone on the salty reaches of the southern part of
Decatur Island, Washington, where I live part time. This stone
is made of hardened clay, long lain under the salt water. It has
been painted, etched, and carved. Click on the small raven above
to see the full image in greater detail.
Girvin is recognized internationally as a designer,
writer, illustrator, and calligrapher, and has spoken
all over the world on issues affecting business communications,
branding, corporate identity, and incorporating emotional
and complete sensory content in all aspects of marketing.
His Seattle design firm (Girvin, Inc.) has earned
an international reputation as one of the finest design
firms on the West coast. Clients include Apple, Microsoft,
IBM, Estée Lauder, Sprite, Nabisco, CBS, Bellagio
Hotel, and United Way. Visit his website: www.girvin.com.