I knew that the small, white feather on the bedroom floor
had escaped from the duvet as I made the bed, but for a fleeting moment I was
happy to think it was a sign from my late father and I smiled. Superstition, of course, but it gave me a few
moments of joyful memories of my lovely dad and there’s no harm in that.
I was brought up to understand that peacock feathers are a
bad omen and not welcome in the house. They are a sign of doom, even death,
apparently. In Greek mythology Argus, a monster
covered with eyes, was changed into a peacock by Hera, so maybe that is where the
superstition comes from. A peacock in full plumage with such rich color is
beautiful and majestic.Even so, I heed
to those who have gone before, just in case.
Magpies bother me and when I see one, or hopefully more than
one, I have to say the rhyme. If it is alone, I say “Good morning, Mr Magpie” which
should be enough to protect me, again just in case.Magpies have stunning deep blue colouring on
their wings. The only time I’ve seen a magpie up close is when the unfortunate,
motionless bird was gripped in the jaws of my springer spaniel.No wonder I feel doomed.
I found this paragraph in an article about the superstitions
of feathers in Nature Center Magazine, written by Emma Springfield. I’ve never heard of this before and as it made
me laugh, I’d like to share it.
“Feathers from a
wren are used by sailors to prevent shipwreck. The wren must be chased, caught
and killed on Christmas Eve. Then it was carried on top of a pole with its
wings outstretched.For a coin one
feather was bought.At the end of the
day so many sailors would have purchased a feather that the wren was
practically featherless.It would then
be buried on the seashore.The sailor
would keep the feather on his person in order to make it home safely.”
White feathers have been a symbol of cowardice. The Order of
the White Feather was founded at the start of World War I and reinstated at the
start of World War II, where white feathers were given to men who hadn’t joined
the military forces and considered to be ‘conscientious objectors’.
The feather that came out of my duvet got pushed back inside
one of the sections because I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It is the
warmest, lightest, most comfortable duvet we’ve ever had because it is filled
with goose feather and down. As a child I remember the Paisley patterned
eiderdowns we had, the same as my grandparents, back in the days of sheets and
blankets before duvets or continent quilts reached our shores. Our beds were
never cold, thanks to the feathers.
I found this poem,
'Hope' is the thing with feathers—That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me. Emily Dickinson Thanks for reading, Pam x
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