After a few unexpected tumultuous days, and after a much-needed sleep-in this morning, I decided to go out for my daily walk. I needed to get right into nature to blow away the fallout still swirling within my mind, and so the Styx Mill Conservation Reserve seemed the best place to do that: a swath of barely touched nature pressed up against subdivisons on three sides.
One of the last times I decided to walk through the reserve, I made the choice to enter through the area I normally exit through. There’s a sidewalk at the edge of our subdivision that ends at some bushes and trees with a gravel path extending beyond it. Walking down that, downhill, the sound of the Styx River meandering by beyond the predator fence and the foliage beyond beckoning, I turned right, walking down the sidewalk briefly hugging Styx Mill Road until the path veers right and into the reserve.
I was surprised on how quickly the trees were changing. They were that paler shade of green only a few days ago, but now, golds and ochres and crimsons have replaced that green. I looked up at the cottonwoods and their rounded leaves rustling in the light breeze against the gray sky. So strange that a few days ago – on a day sunnier and slightly warmer than this – I looked up at those same very trees, an unusual milestone in an even stranger relationship weighing heavy on my mind.
With Taylor Swift playing on my headphones, and me “chatting” to ChatGPT about what each song could bring to this moment, where I wanted to clear my head, where I wanted to let nature soothe me, where I wanted peace instead of conflict, I walked past the lake, with those ducks perched on their same perches within the water they prefer, past the whio gliding through the still waters, past the pukeko dashing into the long grasses. Over the bridge with the Styx River bubbling beneath it, through the reserve with the river meandering towards and away from the path. A pause at the Kahikatea arching their way skywards at the edge of a crystal stream pool beside the path – one of my most favorite parts of this particular trail – before following the gravel further. Over another bridge, this time with the Styx River calmly rushing under. Finally, through the “airlock” gate, acting as a barrier to keep pests and predators out, from the reserve to the parking lot area with the road and path leading back out of the park.
This path branches out right near the entrance. Left into another parking lot and another trail called the Hussey Road View walkway, which is a favorite of mine and right back towards the Northwood subdivision and home. (A little further than that, the path splits again: left to Hussey Road and directly to the subdivision along the road; right along the predator fence along a gravel trail that emerges at the edge of the subdivision and meanders at its edge until it hits the sidewalk a few blocks from our house.)
A few days ago, at this very intersection, my gait slowed as I saw two bunny rabbits playing gleefully with one another: jumping up and down around one another, taunting each other, until one dashed into the undergrowth and the other followed. (For reference: rabbits are rare in this part of Christchurch, and they had culled most of the rabbits living in this area a few years ago, so seeing rabbits – these were my second and third of that walk – was very rare indeed.)
My watch buzzed, saying I’d hit my 30-minute exercise goal, allowing me to take the path to the right and head back home.
But something in my gut whispered: “Turn left.”
And instead of overanalyzing or double guessing my gut instinct, I listened.
There’s a path beyond the small parking lot there, lined with chestnut trees people harvest around this time of year, that snakes around a copse of tall blue gums and thin reedy trees before entering into the thick of them. I followed the path into the mini-forest, and right as I got to a part of the path where a shorter tree overhangs it, two fantails appeared. They flittered through the air, dancing around me, until one landed, and then the other, on the branch above me. They squeaked their delicate song while the one closer to me observed me.
But it seemed more than observation. They seemed to acknowledge me, gaze at me, see me for something more than just some random human walking.
Before I knew it, they took to the air, chirping, and flittered away as softly and quickly as they had arrived.
The moment struck me. It wasn’t only a crossing of paths, even for a few fleeting moments; it was something deeper.
In Māori tradition, pīwakawaka (fantails) are messengers and symbols of change, transformation, and guidance. Some traditions state fantails are spiritual messengers from those who have passed away. Other traditions say a fantail crossing your path is a sign that you’re walking the right path, both emotionally and spiritually.
Late last year, I had a reading with a psychic. This was around the time I started noticing a lot of synchronicities in my life, and I wanted some answers. This particular psychic stood out because he said things that seemed like signs to me (and that’s for me to discuss another time). One of the questions I had had for him was, could he tell me who my spirit guides were and how many there were? Two, he said, but I can’t tell you their names because I don’t know. (But then he went on about how he had named one of his own nameless spirit guides a certain name which I believe is one of my own spirit guides, which was, I believe, a sign.) More on that later.
Earlier, I alluded to my mood: needing to clear my head, to let the breeze blow away the fallout swirling within my thoughts. I’ve mentioned a person in my life, a dismissive avoidant person, who has severely impacted my own mental wellbeing in the last few months with their words and their actions. This person has a host of mental health conditions further complicating their day-to-day life, and I’m going to be honest and say I think they are not managed as well as they could be.
After I left Chicago in January, our communication became more erratic.
During one conversation, when I knew they were getting ready for work, I tried to close the conversation (so they didn’t feel they needed to reply as well as get ready) with a, “Anyway, I should let you go,” type of text. Their response? Didn’t I think that the use of the word, “anyway”, was a bit passive-aggressive?
No. No, not really. Would any normal person think that?
This push-pull dynamic was swinging more wildly from one extreme to the other. And I kindly and calmly pointed this out, and I received a barrage of passive-aggressive antagonism.
They said that they needed space and they’d contact me back in a few days, so I took them at their word.
Learning more about attachment types and boundaries, I didn’t respond. I held my boundaries. I wasn’t going to expose myself to this from a supposedly close friend. So, I thought, I’m going to hold silence as my boundary.
And 39 days came and went by. I went through all sorts of emotional turmoil until, earlier this week, I felt like I finally came to terms with this friendship being at an end, and that I actually wasn’t the problem after a lot of self-reflection, talking about it in counselling, and running the text threads by ChatGPT for analysis.
I mentioned 39 days. Because on the 39th day, this person waltzed right back into my life. No apology. No clarity. Just chaos and confusion. Mixed messages (again), which had been half my issue with our communication in the first place. (This person had the audacity to say it was me “causing drama” during a face-to-face argument. And I calmly pointed out that when I ask a yes or no question, I shouldn’t be met with a 5-minute mixed message not answering the question, and, in fact, that caused the drama.)
I didn’t respond the way they wanted. They lashed out again. Accusing me of bringing the “negative energy” their therapist had allegedly urged them to purge from their lives in their session earlier that day. As if I was the problem for asking for respect, for setting boundaries to protect my own wellbeing.
I stood my ground. I said what I needed to say without being unkind. I pushed back that I brought “negative energy” to any friendship, or if I did, I could stand up and admit it. And in this case, how could I bring “negative energy” when we hadn’t spoken for 39 days?
But when I asked these things, what I received back made their meltdown that started this latest cycle look like a Valentine’s Day card.
I held my boundary. I refused to engage.
I’m not going to lie; I felt rattled. Shaky. This friendship, in my mind, had been over, and here I was, at the end of processing that without any closure, and they were back, exploding a nuclear bomb within my life.
The words, and more so that energy – that fallout – swirled and swirled and swirled within me. Stalked me. Weighed me down. Lingered.
I hadn’t expected any sort of peace today. No peace, and certainly no clarity.
But my gut whispered to me, “Turn left,” and I listened.
And I was met by messengers.
Two fantails.
Two.
And remembering a few days ago:
Two rabbits.
Two.
Looking back on the psychic’s reading?
Two spirit guides.
Two.
Too precise to be coincidental.
No, this felt like confirmation.
“You are not alone.”
“You are not lost.”
“You choosing the path less familiar, you choosing yourself, you choosing more, was the right call.”
My turn left today on my walk? It became a metaphor for everything I’ve been trying to do lately. To listen. To lean into intuition instead of fear. To accept what’s ended and walk towards what’s next, even if that walk might be imperfect and meandering and messy through the mud but with truth and love and integrity and intention to keep moving forward.
The fantails?
They didn’t leave in anger.
They didn’t scream or accuse or gaslight or try to rewrite the story.
They arrived with a song, and they left with grace.
Not all departures hurt.
Some feel like blessings with soft wings.
Today was a lesson from the universe: trust your gut. Turn left when you feel the nudge.
I’ll arrive where I need to be, and maybe at the start of my next adventure.
Beam Me Up, Scotty 
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